


Hazel and Hawthorn

by CrunchyWrites



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Regency, I’ve just watched Pride and Prejudice (2005) a lot okay, Lord!Jon, M/M, Pining, Regency Romance, This fic is currently on indefinite hiatus, Yearning, gardener!Martin, regency AU but without the racism sexism homophobia or transphobia, regency AU written by someone who knows nothing about the regency era, slowburn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-23
Updated: 2021-01-20
Packaged: 2021-03-09 20:34:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 41,911
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27682286
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CrunchyWrites/pseuds/CrunchyWrites
Summary: It is a truth universally acknowledged that a single individual in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a partner. Lord Jonathan Sims, ward of Lord Elias Bouchard, isnotsuch an individual, despite the sizable inheritance awaiting him upon his successful marriage, but it seems he has no choice in the matter. Lord Bouchard is determined to see him wed within the year, which means that Jon needs to find someone that he deems suitably tolerable.[Please note that this fic is currently on indefinite hiatus.]
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 117
Kudos: 238





	1. Chapter 1

The grandfather clock in the office of Lord Elias Bouchard didn’t tick quite right.

Jon knew this. He’d had more than enough time to become accustomed to it in the last fifteen years of his life, to recognise how the _tick_ arrived just slightly ahead of where you’d think it would given the timing of the _tock,_ and he’d also had enough time to recognise that it was something that Elias, bastard that he was, was probably doing deliberately. For a man who was usually so meticulous about his home, taking great pride in ensuring that the furnishings were well cared for and the garden was properly maintained, it was almost unfathomable to think that he would allow a poorly designed clock to continue to function for so long without sending it away to be fixed, or, more plausibly, replacing it altogether. Jon had seen him do as much before, when a newly-commissioned portrait hadn’t been quite to his liking, and yet the clock remained; a little piece of subtle wrongness amongst the grotesque splendour that filled every inch of his office. If he was feeling kinder, Jon may even have gone so far as to consider the off-kilter ticking as being a pleasant distraction from the conversation that he knew was coming, but, as it so happened, Jon very definitely was _not_ feeling kinder, at least not then. And he wasn’t feeling particularly kind because, as had been the pattern for the last several years of his life, Elias had just asked him up to his office for a ‘quick chat.’

“Jonathan,” Lord Bouchard said warmly. It was the first word that he’d said since Jon had stepped foot in his study in what was probably only seconds but definitely felt like minutes ago, and there was nothing in his tone to give any indication of what it was that he wanted to talk about. That didn’t change much, though. Jon already knew exactly what it was that Elias was going to bring up, and he knew exactly what it was because it was a conversation that they’d had countless times before, and would doubtless have countless times again before Elias was satisfied with any of Jon’s responses. If it were anyone else trying to have this conversation with him, Jon never would have even entered the study at all in the first place. He would have feigned illness, or gone for a walk in the garden during which he would have tragically lost track of time, or he would have done any one of a number of things to ensure that he didn’t need to be here, but he hadn’t. He couldn’t. Not with Elias. Elias always seemed to know when he was lying, and likewise he always seemed to know exactly where Jon was.

Not to mention, of course, that Elias was also his legal guardian.

Jon shut his eyes, just for a moment, and then gave a small half-bow, inclined his head politely, and replied, “my lord.”

Elias tutted. “Jonathan, you know that you need not stand on formality here. How many times must I remind you that you are more than welcome to call me Elias? You are aware, I hope, that I see you as my own son.”

“I’m aware,” Jon replied. He’d been aware of it for years, ever since he’d first arrived at Magnus House, but the passage of years had only made him less, not more, likely to call Elias by his given name. As it was, he preferred the impartiality of ‘my lord’ – it allowed him to pretend, if only for a moment, that he wasn’t as dependent on Lord Bouchard as he actually was. “You’ve told me this several times, my lord-” Elias raised an eye brow. Jon swallowed. “…Elias.”

“Was that really so hard?” Elias asked, smiling fondly at Jon from across the desk. Jon deigned not to reply. “I really shouldn’t need to remind you of this every time we have one of these chats, Jonathan. I know you may not like to accept that we are, legally, related-”

“You being my guardian does _not_ make us related.”

“But it’s simply the way that the world is, and the sooner you do away with this childish pettiness, the better. You are my _son_ , Jonathan, and I intend to treat you as such. And as your guardian, it is my job to care for you, and raise you, and to ensure that you are properly equipped for your own independent life. Which means-”

“ _My lord_ -”

“Which means, Jonathan, that it once again comes to me to discuss the matter of your _inheritance_ ,” Elias interrupted, talking over Jon without breaking eye contact. “Need I remind you of the terms of it?”

Jon deflated slightly. “…No.”

“I thought not. Your parents were rather clear on what you must do in order to obtain it. I believe they were worried of you being, ah, lonely in your later years.”

“A fear that you share, I’m sure.”

Elias barely blinked. “Well, of course. I told you, Jonathan – I view you as my own son. It would hardly do for my son to find himself partnerless and alone in his later years. I’ve heard that it’s far from a pleasant experience, to be, ah, forgotten and lost.”

“Yes, and you would know, wouldn’t you?” Jon snapped before he could stop himself. “How are things with the earl? With Lord Tundra?”

Just for a moment, Elias’ eyes narrowed. It was a tiny motion, so small as to be unnoticeable to almost everyone, but Jon had made an art out of needling Elias however possible, if only to pay him back in some small measure for all the frustration and discomfort that he put Jon through with every successive suitor that was presented to him.

“Peter is… fine,” Elias said eventually. “He’s currently at sea, I believe. But my relationship with him is not what we’re here to discuss. We’re here to talk about you, Jonathan. We’re here to talk about your relationship. Or, rather, your distinct lack thereof.”

“My lord- Elias,” Jon corrected quickly, seeing the look that flashed across Elias’ face. “I am- you know full well that I am quite content to live independently if only you would give me the means to do so.” _If only_ , he meant to say, _you would give me my inheritance._ Elias had been dangling it above his head for years, damn near _teasing_ him with it by constantly discussing the inheritance – and Jon’s inability to obtain it – with him. It was maddening. It was infuriating, and there was nothing that Jon could do about it.

Not unless, that was, he did exactly as Elias requested.

Across the desk from him, Elias simply smiled. “I am quite aware, Jonathan. You’ve made yourself very clear on the matter a number of times over, but unfortunately it is not that simple, as you well know. There are terms and conditions to be met, and you are hardly getting any younger. You’re now nearly thirty-”

“Must we really bring my age into this?” Jon snapped, unable to stop himself.

Elias raised a single eyebrow in response. “Well, yes,” he replied, “I rather think we must. Most young men are married far before they reach your age, you know, and I’m sure you’re aware that the longer you leave this, the harder it will be to find a suitable match for you.” He snorted. “God knows that you’ve dismissed enough of my suggestions out of hand as it is.”

“I’m not going to-”

“Yes, yes, I know, you’re not going to marry someone solely to attain your inheritance and allow yourself to live a pleasant and comfortable life away from Magnus House, which I know you despise so strongly,” Elias finished for him with a heavy sigh. “You’ve made your feelings on the matter very well known. Which, if I am honest, only makes it all the more confusing that you have been so vehemently against every single person that I introduced you to. I have presented you with a number of acceptable suitors over the years and you are yet to accept any of them.”

“My lor- Elias, you are already aware that I found them all to be disagreeable.”

“You seemed perfectly content with Sir Oliver. I know he was only a baronet, Jonathan, but at your age you can hardly afford to be picky-”

“You _know_ that wasn’t why I rejected him,” Jon retorted instantly.

Elias leaned back, his smile widening by millimetres. “Oh?” he asked. “Well, I had no other option than to assume that it was, seeing how you and he appeared to be getting along admirably.”

“Sir Oliver was- Sir Oliver was… fine,” Jon admitted after a brief pause. “He was- he was tolerable company, but was- it’s-”

“What?”

_But certain things would be expected of me_ , Jon wanted to say. _Certain things would be expected of me that I do not wish to give._ He wasn’t a foolish man, or a stupid one, and he was all too aware of what people tended to think of as being vital to a successful marriage. He was all too aware that, even when childbearing wasn’t a possibility, certain activities were still… _expected_ of newlyweds.

But he couldn’t say that to Elias. He couldn’t say that to Elias, not now and not ever. He had no desire to share with Elias any more details about himself than were absolutely necessary, and Elias already knew far more about him than Jon was truly happy with. Admittedly, much of that knowledge was the sort that would always be obtained when sharing a residence with someone for a certain period of time, but it still irked him, prickling beneath his skin as though Elias’ too-sharp eyes could see all the way down to his bones. He couldn’t tell Elias the true reason that he’d rejected Sir Oliver. That was far, far too personal.

“I found that I had too many disagreements with him,” Jon said eventually. “I felt that- I felt that, had we married, we would have grown to resent each other and caused more scandal than my _not_ marrying him would have caused. He was too… he was too morbid, to put it simply.”

“Oh, of course, and that clarifies everything I’m sure, keeping in mind what an optimistic soul you possess, Jonathan.”

Jon glared at Elias. Elias didn’t blink, instead just reaching out to adjust some of the papers on his immaculately tidy desk.

“Well,” Elias continued, “perhaps you _did_ have your reasons for rejecting Sir Oliver, whatever they may truly have been, but need I remind you that you rejected Lady Barker, too? And when you were betrothed to each other no less.”

“I did- I did _not_ reject Georgie!” Jon spluttered, glaring at Elias, who only smiled back beatifically. “You are well aware of that, _Elias_. Do not try and spin the situation to imply that that was the case.”

“I fail to see how I could do anything else. After all, _you_ were the one who informed me that you had called the engagement off. It was quite a scandal, if you recall. Poor Lord Leitner was dreadfully upset. I believe he’d been looking forward to writing about your wedding.”

“I called off the engagement because, although Georgie and I were – and _are_ – very good friends, we weren’t going to get married when Georgie had found someone that she _did_ actually love. It’s all very well and good marrying your best friend, but I was not going to stand in the way of her happiness once she found it. Surely even you can understand that.”

Elias waved a hand. “Jonathan, you know as well as I do that love matters little when it comes to marriage, especially for individuals of our standing. If we were- hah, well, if we were _gardeners_ , say, then perhaps we could contentedly live within a fairytale where love is all that is needed to be happy in marriage, but thankfully we are _not_ gardeners, and so we must consider other things. You are an important man, Jonathan. You must think of how others perceive you.”

“I am well aware of how others perceive me, Elias. You saw to that.”

“Mm, yes, I suppose I did,” Elias replied, velvet smugness hanging from each of his words. “It’s an important trait to develop though, Jonathan. How we are seen, what we perceive from others… it matters a lot. It affects many aspects of our lives, whether you like that knowledge or not. Now you have, with my guidance, developed this skill rather well, but I am afraid that you still fall short in some areas. Namely, you still fail to understand that you will not be taken seriously in society until you are happily married!”

Jon wanted to sneer. He could feel it tugging at his lips, pulling them back, but he pushed the desire away. It would not do to sneer at his guardian, at least nowhere Elias could see him. _Happily married_. As if that were even a remote possibility for him. As if he could ever be _happily married_ to any of the individuals that Elias insisted on repeatedly introducing him to. As if he could be _happily married_ at all. He’d given up hope of that quite some time ago, and he strongly doubted that yet another conversation with Elias would in any way convince him otherwise. He’d lost count of how many times Elias had spoken with him on the matter over the years, and he couldn’t imagine that this conversation would go any differently.

Perhaps, if he pointed that out, he may be permitted to leave without wasting any more time discussing a pointless, repetitive topic.

“Is there a point to this meeting, my l- Elias?” Jon asked as politely as he possibly could, clasping his hands behind his back. “Or are you simply reminding me of what I already knew?”

Elias’ smile grew. “Oh, of course, thank you for reminding me, Jon. I did indeed call you here with a purpose.” He leaned forwards in his chair, his eyes sparkling as brightly as those of the taxidermy owl mounted above his desk, wings outstretched and claws ready to snatch and grasp. “I have a, ah, a proposal of sorts for you. Sadly,” he added with a quiet, private chuckle, “ _not_ the sort of proposal that I was hoping to acquire for you, but I assure you that it is related.”

“How so?”

“Please, Jonathan, let me speak. All in due time.”

Jon bit his tongue.

“Better,” Elias said. “Now, as I was saying before you so rudely interrupted, I cannot provide for you forever. I cannot access your inheritance, and neither can you until you are married, and though I am forever glad that your late parents passed your care over to myself upon their passing, I simply cannot shelter you from the world forever. You have been languishing, Jonathan, and I feel that without proper motivation, you will continue to do so indefinitely.” Elias leaned back in his chair, leaving the sunlight to fall across his desk while his face retreated beneath the shadow of the owl’s wings. “Which is why I have a suggestion for you. An agreement that we may come to, one which will see you out from beneath my roof within a year.”

Jon narrowed his eyes. “A year? You promise?”

“Oh, absolutely.”

As if Jon would trust Elias’ word on that. He’d known Elias too well and for too long to believe that he would ever provide such an easy and straightforward solution, especially to something that Jon so strongly desired.

Jon cleared his throat. “Very well,” he said. “And what are the terms of this agreement?”

In the shadow of the owl, Elias’ eyes sparkled. “One year,” he said again. “I will give you one year to find, or otherwise accept, a suitable partner. I cannot keep providing for you forever, Jonathan, and if you do not settle yourself and do away with these fancies of a lax and easy life under my roof then I will see you wed to an individual of my choosing. That said, I would of course _never_ force you into a marriage that you truly detested.”

“I’ve disliked all of your suggested suitors so far,” Jon pointed out. “What happens if I reject the one that you- that you _choose_ for me?”

“Oh, well, that’s very simple,” Elias replied. “If you decide that you would rather stay unwed and insist that you will be content to die unloved and alone, then I will instead graciously pay your commission into the military. I have several well-connected friends within the army – I’m sure that we’ll be able to find you a position of command where you feel, ah, _at home_. Now,” Elias continued, as Jon spluttered quietly, “does this strike you as a reasonable deal, Jonathan?”

_No,_ Jon wanted to say. _No, it does not_. He could hardly imagine a worse deal, and yet he knew that he had little say in the matter. For as long as he was under Elias’ roof, for as long as he was Elias’ ward, all he could really do was nod, and smile, and go along with whatever it was that Elias had suggested, no matter how much he may be loath to do so. _The military_. It had been suggested before, of course, but Jon had always been quick to stamp the suggestion down. He would rather be unhappily wed than an officer, and now it seemed as though that well may be the case.

“Yes,” Jon spat, somehow forcing his tongue into cooperating enough to speak. “Y-yes, fine, I will- yes, I will- I will find myself a partner.” He could barely keep the anger and frustration from his voice. He rather suspected that some had slipped through despite his best efforts, but he didn’t particularly care. Elias was more than aware of Jon’s dislike for him, and for the paperwork and rules that tied him to the house as surely as any physical tether. “Will they need to receive your blessing, my lor- Elias?”

Elias’ smile widened again, spreading across his face like oil on water. “But of course. I can hardly permit a match that I deem to be unfit. You’re a baron, Jonathan, and it is of vital importance that you and your eventual partner are both equals. That said, I will of course have no objections if you find yourself a pleasant baronet to settle down with, though as I said previously, they _are_ rather thin on the ground, given your continued rejection of every individual that I suggest to you.”

“And once I am married, I will receive my inheritance?”

“Absolutely. The money, the house, all of it.”

“That is the only condition? That I marry someone?”

“Well, it was also noted that you would need to come of age, but you achieved that quite some time ago, Jonathan.”

“I’m aware,” Jon said, through gritted teeth.

“Ah, but of course you are,” Elias replied with a quiet laugh. “Now, do you have any further questions?”

_Why is all this even necessary?_ “No.”

“Oh, wonderful. In that case, you may leave now. Please, feel free to find me if you wish to discuss this further.” Elias reached out, pulling a sheet of paper towards him that Jon was sure he had no real need of. “Off you go, Jonathan. Enjoy your day.”

“…Thank you, my lord.”

“’Elias,’ if you please.”

“… _Elias_.”

“Thank you.”

Jon bowed and turned neatly on the spot, anger thrumming through his nerves. He crossed Elias’ office in two strides, reaching out for the door handle and tugging it open to step through it.

“Close the door behind you, please,” Elias added absently, not a trace of annoyance in his tone, and Jon very nearly had to bite his own tongue to keep his bitter words at bay. Carefully, _quietly_ , he pulled the door shut, hearing the latch drop into place with a soft _click_ that seemed altogether too loud in the quiet of the hallway.

And then, because it was all he could think to do for the moment, Jon shut his eyes, leaned back against the wall, and swore quietly under his breath until he felt as though he could think again.

_Damn._ Damn, damn, God _damn_ it, and God damn Elias, and his meddling, and his blasted clock that never ticked quite right. Damn him, and damn Jon’s own parents too, for placing him under Elias’ care and tying up his future with caveats and hoops that Jon was less than willing to jump through. Even now, Jon didn’t understand why their will hadn’t simply stated that he be placed under Elias’ care – or anyone else’s care, for that matter – until he came of age, at which point he would be able to receive his inheritance and live his own life the way that he wished to. He wondered sometimes if Elias himself had had something to do with the situation, if he’d in some way meddled with the will, but even if that was the case, Jon could no more determine Elias’ motives than he could determine the motives on the wind. To watch him suffer, perhaps? To indulge in some voyeuristic delight at watching Jon grow more and more frustrated with every passing year? To form further connections of his own through Jon’s inevitable marriage? Perhaps. Or, equally plausibly, perhaps not. Elias’ motives in this or in anything else had never been clear to Jon. Jon didn’t know. He didn’t think that he would ever know.

And he couldn’t spend too much time thinking about it, either. If Elias was serious about the situation – and he was, Jon knew that as surely as anything – then he would have but a year to find someone that he trusted enough to marry, which was going to be a challenge seeing how rarely he ventured beyond the walls and grounds of Magnus House. He had his friends, in the form of Georgie and her wife Melanie, and possibly in the form of their beloved cat too, but on the whole he preferred to keep to himself, away from the eyes of society who may well judge him for being a man of suitable age, in possession of an appealing inheritance, who was still not yet married. Despite his dislike of his guardian, and his dislike of Elias’ process, he had to admit that he never would have met so many eligible individuals if Elias had not continued to introduce them to him.

Unfortunately, it now seemed that he would _have_ to meet more of them, and find one that he at least deemed tolerable. It was that or the military, and Jon had no intentions of becoming an officer, now or ever. He had no intentions of that, and he had no intentions on marrying someone who he barely knew, and he had but a single year to solve the situation and there was simply _too much_ to think about it.

And so, as he often did when he had too much to think about, Jon left Elias’ office behind him, and instead headed towards the gardens.

The gardens had long since been Jon’s respite from Elias’ ever-watchful gaze. Elias’s office, instead of enjoying views of the beautiful lawns and immaculately tended flowerbeds and ponds that resided in the garden behind the house, instead looked over the drive leading up to the front of the house, allowing him an unparalleled view of the comings and goings of any guest or stranger who arrived at the estate. It was, in Jon’s mind, a rather strange decision, seeing how the front of the house had little to offer in the way of greenery and rather more to offer in the way of gravel and stone, but he was hardly going to complain when it meant that he could walk the gardens undisturbed by the creeping feeling of being _watched_ that so often accompanied him when he was within the house. He doubted that Elias actually cared that much for his actions, but in all his years living under Elias’ roof, he’d never been able to truly shake the feeling from his skin.

Unless, that was, he was in the gardens.

Jon stepped out of the house, quickly making his way down the steps and onto the path that led through the core of the garden, but he didn’t stay on it for long. He’d had more than enough time to develop preferences for certain areas of the gardens, where trees and shrubberies blocked the house from view, and after barely a few seconds of walking he turned off, following instead the path that wound out towards one of the ornamental lakes. It was pleasant by that lake, he’d found; the grand willow tree that sat beside it provided a cool and shady space to read on hot days, with sweeping fronds that hid Jon from the sight of others and, just as importantly, hid the house from the sight of Jon. By the lake, beneath the willow, he could, if only for a moment, imagine that he was somewhere else, no longer trapped beneath Elias’ thumb but instead free to do as he wished. It was a pleasant enough fantasy, so long as Jon could keep himself from remembering that fantasy was all it was.

It was a fantasy, though, that Jon didn’t even get to dwell on, as barely a moment later he turned another corner, and immediately felt someone slam into his front.

Thankfully, he didn’t fall. He flailed in what was likely a rather ungentlemanlike way, swearing sharply, before a hand latched onto the breast of his coat and tugged him upright, steadying him.

“Oh, God, I’m- I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I didn’t see you there, are you alright?” said a voice. Jon looked up, already batting the hand off his chest, and immediately made eye contact with the man stood before him, his eyes wide and worried and his brows drawing together in a manner that would be adorable if Jon wasn’t already so annoyed.

“I’m fine,” Jon replied curtly. He glanced down, inspecting where the man’s hand had grabbed onto his clothing. “No thanks to you. I think you got dirt on my coat.”

“Oh! Oh, no, I’m sorry!” The man reached forwards, reaching for Jon’s coat as though planning to brush off the small patch of soil that clung to the fabric, but Jon was quick to step back and out of his reach.

“Don’t,” Jon snapped. “I don’t need you causing any more mess than you already have.” He glanced down, quickly assessing the state of his clothes. The clump of dirt was, thankfully, rather small, and on a different day Jon may have reassured the man before him and told him not to worry about it, but sadly it wasn’t a different day. Any distraction was a welcome one, even one as unexpected as this. “The laundry workers can take care of it. I’m sure they will know how to treat my clothing properly.”

“I’m sorry,” the man said again. Colour was rising in his cheeks, staining them red beneath the freckles that lay scattered across them in a way that would have been endearing if Jon weren’t quite so annoyed at the man, and at Elias, and at the day in general. The man lowered his hand, stepping back slightly, and it was only then that Jon had the chance to look over him properly, and truly process the situation.

The individual standing before him was not, as far as Jon could tell, someone that he normally saw around the house. He didn’t know all the names of everyone who worked at Magnus House but he recognised most of them, and he did try to be polite to those he had cause to interact with, but this man, with his work-roughened hands and sturdy, hard-wearing clothes marked by dirt and grass, was a new face to Jon. Jon peered at him, eyes narrowed, before nodding at him sharply.

“Who are you, anyway?” he asked. “I don’t believe I recognise you.”

“Oh, sorry, I’m- I- Martin Blackwood,” the man – Martin – said. He held out his hand, just for a second, and then looked at Jon’s face and lowered it again. Against his side his fingers curled and then uncurled, as though unsure of whether a handshake was appropriate. “I’m the, um, I’m- I’m the new head gardener? I was- I just started working here yesterday to replace Mr Hopworth, I’m sorry, I don’t- I didn’t know you’d be in the grounds, I was trying to find the herb garden-”

“So you decided to explore the gardens back here?” Jon interrupted. “Of course, how foolish of me. Where else would you expect to find a herb garden than residing alongside the roses?”

Immediately, colour rose in Martin’s cheeks. On another day, Jon may have felt bad for causing the young gardener such distress, but his thoughts were still too preoccupied with Elias and his damn ‘agreement.’ “I’m really sorry,” Martin said again. “I- it- I was- I needed to look at the roses anyway, and I knew that the herb garden would be somewhere around here, and I got distracted by the plants as I was walking because I’ve been asked to redesign certain areas of the garden and so-”

“Mr Blackwood, I don’t really care for your excuses,” Jon said, cutting him off short. “Maybe next time consider looking where you’re going. Hah, if anything, you’re _lucky_ that it was me you bumped into and not, say, Lord Bouchard.”

Martin’s face paled. “O-oh,” he said quietly. “Oh, God, I hadn’t- God, I hadn’t even considered that! I- I- I mean, I’m not- I’m not _glad_ that I bumped into you, I’m really sorry that I did, but I’ve, um, I’ve heard that Lord Bouchard is, um-”

“Lord Bouchard is my guardian, and he is a perfectly respectable gentleman,” Jon interrupted before the gardener could dig himself an even deeper pit. “He is a perfectly respectable gentleman who happens to prefer to stay in his office.” He glanced at Martin’s face, still lined with fear, and something sharp and angry in his chest softened, just slightly. “… You’re unlikely to see him in the garden,” Jon added. “If you do happen to bump into anyone again-”

“I won’t, I promise-”

“- _if you do_ ,” Jon continued, “then they will likely be myself. Or one of my- or one of Lord Bouchard’s guests. Possibly a servant, but they’re also unlikely to be here, and the worst they’re likely to do is glare at you. That said, I wouldn’t recommend annoying any of them.”

“I wasn’t- I mean- I wasn’t- I wasn’t really planning to,” Martin said, making Jon privately wonder if Mr Blackwood was capable of saying anything without stammering in that almost frustratingly endearing way that he did. “I don’t, um, I’d rather- I- I’ll keep that in mind.” Martin paused, and then added, nervousness hanging from every syllable, “My lord, um, Lord-”

“Lord Sims is fine.”

“-Lord Sims, I apologise, are you, um, are you-”

“I’m not angry,” Jon said, sighing slightly. Martin’s shoulders immediately softened, relief crossing his face, but some tension still remained. “I will admit that I’m not exactly _delighted_ , but I suppose I must permit you some room for error, seeing how it is, supposedly, your first day.” Martin glanced up, just for long enough for Jon to catch his eye. “Take care not to do it again,” he said, with perhaps more menacing overtones than the words necessarily required, and Martin immediately looked away again.

“I’m- I’m sorry, I’m really sorry,” Martin said. He ducked his head, spinning his hat between his fingers. “I’ll, um, I’ll just- I’ll be on my way,” he continued and then stepped forwards, hurrying past Jon, but he only made it a couple of steps before Jon stopped him.

“Wait!” he called out. Martin froze immediately, his shoulders hunching as though he were trying to make himself smaller. With a sigh Jon turned to him, raising one hand and gesturing vaguely.

“The kitchen is in the east wing of the house,” Jon said, nodding his head in the rough direction of it. “Go along the path, turn right, and then go past the oak. You should be able to see it then. If you don’t, find a maid or a footman and ask them for directions, and _try_ not to bump into anyone else on your way. Do you understand, Mr Blackwood?”

Just for a moment, Martin blinked at him. “I- I see,” he said quietly, after a few seconds pause. “I understand. Past the oak?”

“Yes,” Jon said, and then, because the frustration and anger in his veins hadn’t quite yet subdued to an acceptable level, he added, “I’m sure that you’ll be able to recognise it, being a _gardener_ and all.”

“I- y-yes,” Martin stammered. “I can- I know what an oak tree looks like.”

“Good. Off you go,” Jon added, when Martin made no move to leave.

“Oh! Oh, yes, um, good day, my lord!” Martin bobbed in a quick bow, his hat still clutched between his fingers, and then turned quickly on the gravel path, hurrying away as swiftly as he politely could. Jon watched him leave, his eyes following him right up until Martin took the right turn that Jon had indicated, vanishing from sight between the hedges.

What a strange individual. For a moment, Jon wondered if he was likely to encounter Mr Blackwood again, but he was quick to dismiss the thought. Mr Blackwood was a gardener, after all – even if they _were_ to meet again when Jon was on one of his walks, what would they even talk about? Would Mr Blackwood even _want_ to talk to him again, considering how terrified he’d seemed to be during the course of their conversation? Jon doubted it. He was aware that he could be unsocial sometimes – he’d been made aware as much by Georgie on countless occasions – and that he could, supposedly, come across as a rather grouchy individual when he was in a bad mood, but he saw no reason to hide his true feelings to a _gardener,_ of all people. Around Elias, or Georgie, or Melanie, or anyone else who he needed to be polite to, he was willing to put in the effort to seem at least moderately agreeable, but Mr Blackwood, inexplicably charming as he was, was hardly someone that Jon needed to impress. He was just a gardener. Perhaps Jon could have been politer to him, yes, but at the same time, the man _had_ managed to muddy his coat. He’d been clumsy, and careless, and hopefully he would remember the conversation they’d just had in future.

That said, now that he thought back over it, Jon couldn’t help but feel bad for scaring the man. He hadn’t felt it at the time, still too caught up in everything else that was going on, but as he resumed his walk he couldn’t help but feel that he had, perhaps, been a touch too harsh on the young gardener. It had been a long time ago, and he’d been on much more even footing with the lord of the house when he’d first arrived, but he could still remember how daunting it had been to set foot on the lands of Magnus House for the first time. His own family home had been similarly impressive, and Jon was sure that it must have seemed just as daunting to new arrivals, but he’d grown up in it, and so its grandeur was comforting to him rather than imposing.

Magnus House held none of that same familiarity. Jon couldn’t even start to imagine how imposing the house and the lands that surrounded it must be to someone who would likely never see most of the rooms of the building that they worked around. Actually, now that he thought about it, Jon rather doubted that Mr Blackwood would ever see _any_ of the rooms of Magnus House. It wasn’t like he had much reason to enter the property. He had no reason to enter the property, and Jon had no reason to speak to him again, and, if he were entirely honest with himself, he had no reason to even _think_ of him again, beyond remembering him as the clumsy gardener who got mud on his clothes.

And besides, he reasoned as he proceeded further into the garden, he had rather more important things to think about than the fate of some gardener.

For starters, he needed to start thinking about who on Earth he was supposed to marry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading this first chapter of what will (hopefully) work out to be a long, slow-burn fic full of that regency era pining that we all crave. Due to my lack of familiarity with both the regency era and gardening, this fic is requiring a fair amount of research and extra work, so chapters will be going up **every week and a half**. The date of the next chapter upload will be posted at the end of every chapter.
> 
> If you liked this chapter, please consider leaving a comment! They really help keep the motivation flowing ^-^
> 
> The next chapter will be posted on **December 2nd!**


	2. Chapter 2

> _Dear Georgie,_
> 
> _Thank you for your letter. I’m glad to hear that all is well for you, Melanie, and The Admiral, and that you were not hindered with an excess of disagreeable weather during your trip to the Peak District. I apologise once again that I could not join you, but Elias was most insistent of my remaining at home while he hosted what felt like half the eligible people in the county in an attempt to, once again, see me wed. I assure you, I much rather would have spent the time with yourself and Melanie, enjoying all that the Peak District has to offer and enjoying the break away from Magnus House, but Lord Bouchard was, as always, Lord Bouchard. Perhaps in future years I may be able to accompany you._
> 
> _Although, that being said, it is rather my fear that future years will see me even less likely to accompany you on any great outing, as Lord Bouchard has recently redoubled his efforts to tie me into the bonds of matrimony. He explained to me recently that if I am not married within the year then he will see me done away into the military; a career that I am certain would leave me with even less time to visit yourself or Melanie. He is, apparently, still attempting to find me an acceptable suitor, but I am sure you understand my reluctance to accept any offer of marriage, especially one coming from a recommendation of Lord Bouchard. That in mind, though, I am concerned that I may eventually have to accept that hand of one of the individuals that Elias presents to me. If you happen to know of any eligible people who you think I would perhaps get along with (and before Melanie says anything, because I know that you are reading this aloud to her, please inform her that I am, in fact, capable of_ not _being an ‘unpleasant arse’ when I need to be) then please do let me know._
> 
> _On a lighter note, thank you very much for the book that you sent along with your previous letter. I’m enjoying it immensely, though I do hope that this Archivist character will realise soon that the statements that he is reading hold more truth than he likes to ascribe to them. He’s remarkably talented at dismissing the increasingly apparent. Furthermore, the more I read of this, the more I take offense at you implying that I in any way resemble this man. I accept that there are some similarities in our appearance and mannerisms, but I am not nearly as unpleasant and bitter as he is, nor so prone to rejecting the obvious. How dare you._
> 
> _Yours with love,_
> 
> _Jonathan_
> 
> _P.S. Please pet The Admiral for me._

Jon laid down his pen, taking a moment to reread the letter just on the off-chance that he’d misspelled anything. He rarely did, and he knew that Georgie wouldn’t particularly mind, but he still remembered her delighted and ceaseless teasing of him when he’d accidentally written ‘brain’ as ‘brian’, which was, he’d felt compelled to point out to her, a _very_ easy mistake to make when one was writing quickly. Still, that hadn’t stopped her from bringing it up the next time they’d met, and it _definitely_ hadn’t stopped Melanie, and so Jon took a moment to reread his letter, fidgeting absently with the pen as he did so.

From the direction of the door, Jon faintly heard approaching footsteps. He didn’t look up, instead finishing his reread of the letter and laying his pen down so that he could start to fold the paper. He didn’t need to see who was approaching to know who it was – he’d become pretty adept at identifying the various inhabitants of the house through their footsteps alone, which meant that, right now, he knew it was better to keep his head down and feign ignorance.

Which would have been a perfect plan, if the person approaching him hadn’t also been in possession of a working pair of eyes.

“Ah, Jonathan, there you are,” came Elias’ voice from the doorway, the sound of it ringing clearly through the still air of the drawing room. “I was looking for you.”

“Well, you know my actions and routine almost as well as I do, my l- Elias,” Jon replied, trying to keep at least some of the bitterness from his voice and failing miserably. He folded his letter neatly, pressing down firmly on the paper. “Why were you looking for me?”

“We have a guest.”

Jon shut his eyes. Of course. _Of course_ they had a guest. Elias seemed to have perfected the habit of inviting people over exactly when Jon most wanted to avoid humanity in general, and Elias and his meddling in particular. It was like he could see each and every one of Jon’s moods, and had decided to use this skill of his to be as annoying as humanly possible.

“Do we?” Jon asked, instead of telling Elias to piss off and leave him alone. “I wasn’t aware that we were expecting anyone.”

“Oh, we weren’t.”

Jon paused, waiting patiently, but no further explanation seemed to be forthcoming. _Of course_. Just like Elias to let him dig his own grave. He stifled what he imagined to be the first of many sighs, turning away from Elias to start writing Georgie’s address across the front of the letter. “I assume you’d like for me to meet this surprise guest?” he asked over his shoulder, and when Elias replied, Jon could hear exactly how punchable the smile on his face was.

“But of course,” Elias said, self-satisfaction oozing from his every word. “I’m sure you don’t need me to remind you of just how rude it would be for a guest to meet myself but not you. Are you done writing?”

“I just finished,” Jon muttered, laying his pen down more forcefully than was really necessary. Behind him, he heard Elias clap his hands.

“ _Wonderful_ ,” Elias said. “Now, come along. He’s already in the drawing room.”

“When did he arrive?” Jon asked, standing from his chair and finally turning to face his guardian. Elias’ smile didn’t waver at the expression that Jon could only imagine was painfully visible on his own face; if anything, it just became wider as he beckoned for Jon to follow him, turning towards the door.

“He arrived just this morning,” Elias informed him. “I didn’t wish to disturb you so early in the day. I’m sure you understand.”

“See this is delivered to Lady Barker,” Jon murmured to the footman, passing him the letter as he followed Elias out of the room. “And thank you, my lord, for your… consideration.”

Elias waved a hand. “Oh, but of course,” he said, his voice echoing slightly in the hallway as they stepped out into it, bouncing off the marble tiles until Jon felt as though he were surrounded with it. He hated talking to Elias in the hallways and entrance hall. He hated talking to Elias anywhere, but he _especially_ hated talking to him in the marble-floored rooms and passages of Magnus House. His voice always seemed so much louder there, so much more persistent and impossible to ignore. Add to that the fact that Elias only seemed to leave his office to eat and cause Jon annoyance and frustration, and Jon felt that he had a solid reason to only hum a short acknowledgement of Elias’ words as he trailed after him, a familiar sense of dread gathering in his stomach. He knew exactly what this meeting was likely to be. Much like his numerous ‘conversations’ with Elias, it was an experience that he’d endured more times than he could count at this point, and despite his dislike of it, it seemed it was one that he must endure once again.

Just outside the doors of the drawing room, Elias paused.

“Now, Jonathan,” he said, catching Jon’s eye, “I know that this may seem swift, considering our discussion yesterday, but as I said then you are hardly getting any younger, and I couldn’t pass up on the opportunity to introduce you to a charming young man who just so happened to be in the area, so I do hope that you won’t begrudge me for, ah, interrupting your afternoon.”

“It’s fine,” Jon replied shortly. “I would expect nothing less of you, my lord.”

Elias beamed. “Excellent,” he said. He paused, briefly glancing Jon up and down. Jon didn’t know what his guardian saw on him, but it made the corner of his mouth twitch slightly before his expression smoothed over. “Hm. I don’t suppose I could convince you to smile?”

Jon glared at him.

Elias sighed. “Fine. I did think that might be too much to ask of you. In that case, you could at the very least assure me that you’ll be polite. You _will_ try to be polite, won’t you, Jonathan?”

It wasn’t a question, not really, and Jon knew it. “I’ll be polite, my lord.”

“Ah...”

“…Elias.”

“Better,” Elias said, his smile returning, and then, before Jon had a chance to react, he pushed open the door and swept through into the room beyond. “My lord! I apologise for leaving you alone for so long.”

“It’s quite alright,” replied the individual sat beside the fireplace. No fire was lit, the heat unnecessary given the time of year, but the sunlight streaming through the windows did plenty to illuminate the room, falling across the man’s face and highlighting the sharpness of his cheeks. He rose as Elias approached, performing a neat bow first to Elias and then to Jon, which Jon automatically returned. “I was enjoying the splendour of the room.”

“You’re too kind, Lord Crew,” Elias said, his voice as smooth as oil.

The man gave a short laugh. “Hardly, but thank you. You have a room that’s very worthy of appreciation.”

“Oh, thank you. Now, Lord Crew, I don’t believe you’ve met my ward, have you?”

“I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure.” Lord Crew smiled and, as he stepped closer, Jon got his first true look at the man.

His first thought, annoyingly enough, was that Lord Crew was probably one of the best looking suitors that Elias had ever presented to him. He wasn’t as handsome as Lord Banks had been, not with how his skin was so pale that it bordered on sallow, but he still had a face and general form that Jon found himself appreciating in much the way that he would appreciate fine architecture. His hair was dark, seeming to draw in and hold onto the light in the room, and the light eyes that stared out of his face were quick to catch and then hold Jon’s own gaze. The edges of a sprawling scar peeked out above the collar of his shirt, crawling across his neck like reaching tendrils of lightning, and for just a moment Jon found himself getting lost in the twisting fractals of the pattern, following them as they turned and split, before he realised that he was likely staring and yanked his gaze away.

Unfortunately, because he wasn’t always the smartest man, he yanked his gaze away from the scar and directly toward Lord Crew’s eyes, meeting them so suddenly that he nearly stumbled in his approach.

By some miracle, he didn’t actually trip over his own feet. Jon brought himself to a stop just beside his guardian, nearly bumping directly into Elias. Lord Crew was also, Jon realised absently, remarkably slender; a trait that, when combined with his somewhat diminutive height, gave the impression that he might be swept away by a strong breeze at any moment. For some reason, Jon couldn’t help but compare the man before him to Mr Blackwood – where this man seemed almost ethereal, fleeting and temporary, there was something about Mr Blackwood that had made him seem so much more grounded, beyond just the dirt on his hands. He’d seemed real, tangible in a way that this man didn’t. He’d seemed, remarkably, like someone that Jon could actually talk to if he so wished, for all that he knew that he was on much more even footing with the man stood before him.

“Jonathan,” Elias said, his voice shaking Jon from his slight daze, “allow me to introduce you to Lord Michael Crew. He is, I’m sure you’ll be delighted to hear, a baron just like yourself. Lord Crew, this is my ward, Lord Jonathan Sims.”

“It’s a pleasure, Lord Sims,” Lord Crew said warmly, stepping forward and holding out a hand. Jon glanced down at it, wondering just how much trouble he would get in if he bolted right then and there and hid himself away in the gardens again, but he entertained the thought for barely a second before suppressing it and instead reaching out to shake Lord Crew’s hand.

“Likewise,” he replied, and then, because he could feel the weight of Elias’ gaze on the back of his head, he added, “I hope you had a pleasant journey here.”

Just for a moment, Jon felt Lord Crew squeeze his hand before it was released. “Oh, yes, quite pleasant,” he replied, his gaze darting over Jon as though he were some sort of floral arrangement that only existed to be appreciated. It was an odd sensation, one that twisted in on itself in Jon’s stomach until it almost felt like he was falling. Into what, he wasn’t entirely sure. He’d heard all the old cliché’s about falling into someone’s eyes, but if he was falling into the eyes of Michael Crew then it was far from a pleasant experience. It felt rather like what he imagined falling into the sky would feel like, despite the fact that he knew for a fact that his feet were firmly on the ground, and if Lord Crew were aware of the effect that he was having on Jon then he gave no indication of it. He just continued to smile, every inch the polite and respectable gentleman. “The weather was fine all the way here,” he continued, “though I must say that I am rather looking forward to my stay. It’s good to get away from the city once in a while, you know. It’s so much easier to see the stars out in the country.”

Jon smiled tightly. “Yes, I’m sure that it is.”

“Lord Crew will be staying with us for a while,” Elias interjected, stepping forward with a warm, wide smile. “Isn’t that right, Lord Crew?”

“Oh, yes, quite right,” Lord Crew replied. “Probably only a week or so, though I would not object to staying for longer. You have a lovely home, Lord Bouchard,” he added, turning to face him. The moment that his eyes left Jon’s face, Jon drew in a quick breath, finally feeling as though he could breathe again. “I believe I heard word that you have a rather extensive library.”

“One that’s tragically under-used, I’m afraid,” said Elias. “I keep most of what I need to read in my office, so I believe it’s only really Jonathan and some of the house staff who visit it. I’m sure Lord Sims could tell you plenty about it, though.” He turned to look at Jon, his eyes sparkling sharp green in the sunlight. “Isn’t that right, Jonathan?”

Jon forced himself to smile. “It- yes, I suppose it is. Do you read much, Lord Crew?”

“As much as I am able to,” Lord Crew replied. “Though I will confess that most of what I read many consider to be rather dull. Tomes of meteorology, journals of research into electricity, those are some of my passions.”

“Sadly I don’t think I could call myself an expert on any of those areas. My reading taste tends to be… well, if I’m honest, it tends to be somewhat scattered.”

Lord Crew raised an eyebrow. “Scattered?” he asked. “How so?”

Jon shrugged. “Well… I find myself drawn to knowledge in all forms. I enjoy simply _knowing_ things, whatever those things may be. I’m interested by lots of different areas. It’s… well, as I said, it’s scattered. I do like learning about people, though. I like knowing how they thought, how they acted, how they interacted.”

“History?”

“Sort of? History of a more personal nature, I think I’d have to call it. It’s…” Jon trailed off, feeling himself colouring slightly. He hadn’t spoken at length about his reading interests since… well, since he last spoke to Georgie, probably. It felt _weird_ , being so open about something so intrinsic to himself with someone that he barely knew, and he wasn’t sure if he liked the feeling. Something about Lord Crew still put him on edge, making him feel as though he were standing at the edge of some great precipice.

Mentally, Jon shook himself. That was- that was ridiculous. Lord Crew wasn’t some unknown, inexplicable void. He was simply a man. He was simply a man that Elias was trying to wed him off to. That was it. No more, no less. He could tell him what sort of books he liked to read, even if it _did_ feel like pulling teeth.

Jon took a breath. “I like biographies,” he forced himself to say. “I like- I like feeling as though I can experience the world through someone else’s eyes for a moment. Journals, memoirs, any literature of that sort. Novels, too. I like novels very much. They- I enjoy being able to see a world that isn’t my own.”

“Do you? I tend to find journals and biographies to be rather dull, but I can certainly appreciate a good novel. I’ve actually been trying to locate books from a certain author recently. He’s- well, I’m not sure that I would call him my favourite author, but he produced some fascinating works that are devilishly hard to find. Some of them can be found in regular bookshops, being sold by people who have no understanding of their true worth, but many of them are scattered across people’s libraries. This author’s works were only produced in very limited quantities which makes them rather hard to come by, you see.”

“What was his name?” Jon asked before he could stop himself. From the corner of his eye he could see Elias turning to look at him, caught halfway between shocked and delighted, but he didn’t pay him too much heed. Instead, he kept his gaze firmly fixed on Lord Crew, part of him wondering if he was going to experience that strange falling sensation once again.

Thankfully, whether because he was prepared for it or because it had just been a one-off event, it didn’t happen again. Lord Crew met his gaze, his mouth curling into a smile.

“His name was Jurgen Leitner,” Lord Crew replied. “I don’t suppose the name is familiar to you?”

Jon shook his head. “Not immediately, but there’s still areas of the library that I haven’t looked at or paid too much attention to. If you’d like,” Jon offered, feeling slightly warmer towards Lord Crew now that he knew that they had at least one common interest, “I could take a look for you this evening. It would be good to remind myself of some of the library’s contents. What sort of books does this Mr Leitner write?”

Lord Crew’s eyes sparkled. “Fascinating ones,” he replied, his voice becoming noticeably warmer and amicable. “He’s really quite the author. His work is rather, well… it’s rather more morbid than most of the popular novels nowadays, but they are all strangely enchanting. He’s very adept at drawing you into his stories, until you could almost swear that they’re real. There’s some common themes throughout, of ghosts and monsters and fear and horror, but what is delightful to me is that his books are all so different. Sometimes you feel that they must have had different authors, given the change in style and topic from one book to another, but they are all signed with his hand.”

“You sound as though you enjoy his books.”

“Oh, tremendously. Currently I’m trying to locate one I’ve only heard mention of – _Ex Altiora._ It’s written in Latin, I believe. Do you know Latin, Lord Sims?”

“Passably,” Jon said, finding that, somehow, his smile was starting to turn genuine. “I’m afraid it’s not exactly my area of expertise.”

Lord Crew smiled back. “It’s not mine either, though I do like to consider myself rather adept at it. Perhaps, if it so happens that you have the book in your possession, I could aid you in reading some of it? Or some other Latin tome. As practise.”

Jon inclined his head slightly. “Perhaps you could,” he admitted. “I would- I would not be opposed to a day of reading.”

Maybe, he thought to himself as Lord Crew’s smile widened slightly, just maybe, Lord Crew might _actually_ be tolerable, even if only barely. As much as he hated to admit it, Jon had to agree that Elias was right when he said that Jon wasn’t getting any younger, and that he’d already rejected most of the eligible individuals within reasonable distance of Magnus House. Maybe this man, Lord Michael Crew, would actually be his best match as a partner. He hadn’t done anything yet that Jon could actually take offence at, beyond looking at him in a way that felt weird for reasons that Jon couldn’t exactly pin down. He’d been perfectly polite, and courteous, and admittedly ten minutes of conversation wasn’t quite enough time to truly get to know someone, but it was hard to think long-term and be patient with the sword of Elias’ ‘agreement’ hanging above his head. There was every possibility that Jon would dislike every suitor _after_ Lord Crew. Maybe this really was it. Maybe this was his chance to find a partner and finally receive his inheritance.

Maybe this was his chance to find a _husband_.

Jon choked back a cough at that. _God_. That- that was- that was a thought for _later,_ was what that was. For heaven’s sake, he’d only just met the man! Even by Elias’ standards it was too early for him to start properly thinking about romance and courting and all the bits and pieces that would follow. For now, his only focus should be on conversation, on finding out what Lord Crew’s interests and hobbies were and if they were actually able to have an enjoyable conversation together away from the ever-present eye of Elias. Part of Jon hoped that they would. Part of Jon really, really hoped that, by some miracle, he would actually find himself _enjoying_ his time spent in Lord Crew’s presence, rather than just tolerating it. For all that he told Elias that he was fine with the friends that he had, for all that he _was_ fine with the friends that he had, it would be nice, just sometimes, to have a friend who was closer to hand than Georgie or Melanie. It would be nice to have a partner to talk to.

Which, Jon reminded himself sharply, Lord Crew _was not_ , and he wasn’t going to get his hopes up, either.

Jon drew in a breath, feeling the air twisting through his lungs. For a moment he thought he could smell something uncommon on it, like the scent that hangs in the air just before a storm when the sky itself is weighed down with the potential of lightning, but then the moment passed, and he could breathe easily once again.

“Jonathan,” Elias said, his voice once again drawing Jon’s attention back to the situation at hand, “why don’t we all look at the library after dinner tonight? Perhaps until then you could show Lord Crew around the gardens. Maybe the statue gardens at the back of the house?”

_Where you’d be able to keep an eye on us,_ Jon wanted to say, but didn’t. It was all fine and well being rude to Elias when there was no one else around to hear it, but even Jon wouldn’t go _quite_ so far as to be unpleasant to his guardian in the presence of a guest, even if it was a guest that he wanted absolutely nothing to do with. Or, to be more accurate, even if it was a guest that he had originally wanted absolutely nothing to do with. This was his chance to talk to Lord Crew without the fear of Elias judging his every word. Maybe it would- maybe it would go _well_.

Maybe…

“Certainly,” Jon replied. He turned back to Lord Crew, doing his best to avoid looking at his eyes too much without giving the impression of being rude. After a split second’s consideration, he settled instead for staring at his eyebrows. “Lord Crew, would you like to join me in the gardens?”

Lord Crew smiled. “I would be delighted to join you in the gardens, my lord,” he replied. “I was admiring them from the window before you arrived. They’re quite something.”

“They are,” Jon agreed. He didn’t need to look at Elias to know exactly how he was smiling and nodding at him, probably delighted at how well Jon was tolerating the young lord. Jon turned towards the door, still trying to smile. “If you’d follow me, my lord…?”

“Enjoy yourselves!” Elias called. Jon didn’t let his smile falter as he led Lord Crew through the door into the hallway and then out of the house, onto the raised patio that overlooked the garden. The door shut behind them with a definitive _click_ and, finally, Jon felt like he could breathe again.

The gardens were, as always, beautiful. Jon drew in a deep breath the moment he stepped clear of the house, appreciating the lingering scents of unnamed flowers that drifted on the breeze. He could hear the soft murmur of leaves rustling, could hear the quiet calls of distant birds, and with every additional familiar sound and scent he could feel his nerves and frustration ebbing away. He may still be under Elias’ thumb, may still be having to talk to someone who, in an ideal world, he never would have met to begin with, but at least he was in a domain that he could, even if only somewhat, consider to be his own.

Jon didn’t even have to think to lead Lord Crew down the wide steps and along the central path that cut directly through the statue garden. There was someone already in the statue garden, some gardener knelt at the edge of the path to tend to some plant or another, but Jon paid them little heed, instead starting to walk in the vague direction of one of his favourite sculptures. If nothing else, he figured, if all conversation with Lord Crew were to fall through, then at least they would have the sculpture to talk about.

“You’ll be having a storm soon, I imagine,” Lord Crew remarked as they walked. Jon made a small, curious noise, and in response Lord Crew raised a hand, waving it towards the horizon. The clouds that were starting to gather didn’t look particularly dark to Jon, but Lord Crew sounded entirely certain in his statement.

“Do you think so?” Jon asked, trying not to sound like he was disagreeing with the lord’s remark. “The weather’s been rather fine recently.”

“As I said, meteorology is an interest of mine,” Lord Crew replied. “I’ve become rather adept at recognising when gathering clouds are merely clouds and when they are something altogether more significant. I could be wrong, of course, but it looks to me as though a storm is brewing.” His lips twitched upwards, a small smile growing on his face as he continued to look towards the clouds. “I do hope it’ll hit while I’m here.”

“I imagine it would make your journey back rather unpleasant.”

Lord Crew waved a hand. “Oh, that’s not an issue. I’ve had my fair share of bumpy and unpleasant journeys – one more will hardly kill me. I would just like to be here to see it, is all. Storms are rather beautiful things, don’t you think?”

Jon pulled a face at that, but he didn’t think that Lord Crew saw it. He was still staring towards the clouds, his pale eyes reflecting them back in such a way that it almost looked as though the clouds were nestled within his pupils. “They’re… fine,” Jon said cautiously. “They’re- they’re not exactly my favourite weather, if I’m entirely honest. I take a lot of walks, you see, so I tend to worry about getting caught outside in them.”

“That’s a fair fear to have,” Lord Crew agreed. “Believe me, Lord Sims - I would know. But even then, there’s something particularly enthralling about being caught in a storm, being made to feel so small in the face of all that nature as to offer. They are spectacular things, but they’re not the same in a city. People don’t care about them quite so much,” he continued, with a tone that somehow bordered between melancholy and annoyed. “They run from the rain, certainly, to avoid wetting their clothes, but they don’t respect the storm the way it should be respected. Not the way that people in the country do. In a city, people merely weather the storm and move on. Out here, you have to _experience_ it.”

“… I think people have to experience storms no matter where they are,” Jon said carefully. “That’s- it’s rather difficult to escape the weather. Even if you’re inside, you can still hear that it’s raging.”

Just for a moment, a flicker of irritation crossed Lord Crew’s face. He opened his mouth, looking for all the world as though he were about to reply, and then shut it again. “…Well,” he said eventually, “well… yes. Fine. Perhaps you are right about that, Lord Sims. Now,” he continued abruptly, “I believe you were to show me some of your guardian’s fine statues, were you not?”

He crossed to one of the sculptures, paying no heed to the gardener who continued to work just a few yards away. After a brief hesitation Jon followed him, quietly wondering what on earth he had done to annoy the young Lord. It had been going- well, perhaps it hadn’t been going _fantastically_ , because when did things ever go well with Elias’ suggestions, but it had been going adequately. They’d found a common ground in books, and the conversation seemed to have been going decently right up until it hadn’t been, and apart from the odd, inexplicable sudden change of topic that he’d brought about Lord Crew seemed perfectly polite otherwise, and-

And Jon recognised the gardener working at the edge of the path.

For the second time that day, Jon nearly walked directly into someone’s back. He didn’t, managing to catch himself just before he bashed against Lord Crew’s spine, but it was a near thing, because apparently the universe at large had decided to conspire against him and try its best to trick him into walking into someone by putting him face to face – or, more accurately, face to back – with someone that he’d walked directly into only the day before. _God_. Of course the day was turning out like this. Of course a young man of suitable standing just so happened to be passing through the area so soon after Elias’ discussion with Jon. Of course that young man got Jon’s hopes up by the barest of margins in a manner that Jon felt would inevitably lead to disappointment.

Of course the gardener working right next to them was none other than Mr Blackwood.

Jon could barely see his face from where he stood, but he knew that he was right – he recognised the soft slope of his shoulders, recognised his curly, soft-looking hair, even recognised the hand he could see holding a trowel and poking at the soil.

Absently, Jon wondered just how much of his conversation with Lord Crew that Martin had already heard. He knew it was a pointless question, seeing how, unless they moved away, the gardener would likely be able to hear everything else that they said from this point on, but he couldn’t help but dwell on it all the same. Maybe Mr Blackwood felt, like Jon, that Lord Crew’s abrupt change of topic was rather odd. Maybe Mr Blackwood felt, like Lord Crew, that storms were to be respected and appreciated in equal measure. Maybe, and most likely, Mr Blackwood didn’t actually care for their conversation at all, and would much rather be left alone with his work. Jon would understand that. He almost wished that he were a gardener, if only so that Elias would stop bothering him.

But, as it was, he _wasn’t_ a gardener, which meant that he had to continue to entertain their guest.

“I- I believe Lord Bouchard purchased this bust in London some years back,” Jon said, forcing himself to stop looking at Martin. He raised a hand, waving vaguely at the carved stone. “I’ll admit that it’s not exactly my favourite piece, but it’s pleasant all the same, don’t you think?”

Lord Crew gave a soft hum. “It’s perfectly fine,” he acknowledged. “It suits the gardens.”

“Really? What do you think of them, Lord Crew?”

Lord Crew pulled a slight face, turning his back to Martin as he surveyed them. He cut a fine figure, standing in the middle of the gardens surrounded by the flowers and greenery, but it was a sight that was, at least to Jon, ruined by the expression of light disdain on his face.

“They’re lovely,” Lord Crew replied, after a pause that was just slightly too long. “They’re- yes, they’re lovely. They have a distinctive, ah… _dated_ style to them. Pleasantly rustic, one might say.”

Jon cast an eye over the intricate flowerbeds and scattered statues, each and every one of them an indication of Elias’ preference for the ostentatious over the actually attractive. “…Yes,” he said eventually. “One might say.”

“We have some talented gardeners in town, you know,” Lord Crew continued, not evening seeming to notice the gardener working just a few yards away from him. “They’ve been doing some excellent work bringing some of the gardens at my friend’s properties into the modern age, doing away with all the…” he waved a hand, “… _trappings_ of the past. Of course, the gardens I see don’t tend to be quite so extensive as yours, but they are pleasant nonetheless. None have quite this level of old charm, though.”

“Thank… you…?”

“And it would of course be no bother for me to put Lord Elias in contact with some of my companions, if he so wished.”

“I believe Lord Bouchard recently hired a new gardener, in fact,” Jon said. He tried his best not to look at Martin, not to think about the conversation that they’d had yesterday, but he couldn’t stop himself from glancing towards him, just for a second. Martin hadn’t stopped working, his hand still wrapped around the handle of the trowel as he carefully and delicately did _something to_ the soil, but Jon had to assume that he was listening in. He knew that, had their roles been reversed – and wasn’t that a thought – he _definitely_ would have been. At least Mr Blackwood got all the enjoyment of hearing the discussion without having to actually take part in it. At least, Jon thought, his thoughts turning just a little bit bitter, Mr Blackwood didn’t have to worry about his guardian repeatedly trying to wed him off to people who inevitably turned out to be unpleasant. It almost made him envy the man. How much simpler life would be if all he had to worry about were plants.

“Did he?” Lord Crew said, snapping Jon out of his thoughtful daze. “How recently?”

Jon blinked. “Pardon?”

“How recently did Lord Bouchard hire a new gardener?”

“Oh, uh, he- it was- just the other day, I believe,” Jon replied, thinking back over his previous discussion with Mr Blackwood. If he were entirely honest, he didn’t recall all of it, but he felt like he remembered Mr Blackwood saying that he’d only been hired recently. Perhaps, once he was done with Lord Crew, he could seek Mr Blackwood out and clarify. That would only be polite, after all.

“Oh,” Lord Crew said. “Well, in that case, perhaps your new gardener isn’t aware of the recent gardening trends.”

From the direction of Martin, Jon thought he heard the smallest, quietest, offended intake of breath.

“Are you, Lord Crew?” Jon asked before he could stop himself. He didn’t know why he was feeling so oddly defensive all of a sudden. “Aware of the recent gardening and landscaping trends, that is?”

“…Pardon?” Lord Crew replied. He looked caught off-guard, an expression that probably shouldn’t have delighted Jon as much as it did. “I- well, no, I’ll confess that I’m not. I have rather better things to trouble myself with than the layout of a _garden_. That’s why we have gardeners, after all.”

“Oh, I apologise then,” Jon said. “It’s just that you gave your opinion with such confidence and certainty.”

From down the path, Jon thought that he heard a small, stifled laugh.

For a moment, Lord Crew’s smile tightened. “Yes,” he said, “well… a man is entitled to his opinion, I believe. Perhaps we simply have different tastes in garden design, which is, of course, perfectly permissible and to be expected.”

“Of course.”

“They’re just…”

“What?” Jon dared to ask. He glanced down at Martin, just for a second or two – the gardener appeared to have frozen, his trowel still held above the dirt. After a moment’s pause he continued working, though Jon was sure that his head was inclined towards himself and Lord Crew, even if only slightly. For some reason, the knowledge that Martin was almost certainly trying to listen in made him smile slightly, a single huff of quiet laughter escaping him.

At the sound of it, Martin froze.

And then, before Jon had a chance to look away, he turned his head, met Jon’s eyes, and smiled, just slightly.

Mr Blackwood, Jon realised absently, had very pretty eyes. He had very, _very_ , pretty eyes.

“Well?” asked a voice. Jon jerked his head up and away from Mr Blackwood, looking back at Lord Crew as he hastily attempted to compose himself. “What do you think?”

“O-of what?” Jon heard himself stammer. _Christ_. He couldn’t let himself get distracted by the eyes of a gardener. He was better than that. He knew how to maintain his composure and stay focused. “I’m- I’m so sorry, Lord Crew, I was momentarily distracted.”

Lord Crew’s lips tightened. “I was saying,” he repeated, “that you must have wonderful views of the night sky out here. It might be an idea to add something to the garden that would allow you to be comfortable while observing them, don’t you think? Something by the lake, perhaps?”

“O-oh! Right, yes, r-right. The lake.” Jon nodded, turning away from Martin and facing towards the lake. It could only be distantly seen from where they stood, the still surface of the water shining from between the trees. “You could, ah… yes, perhaps by the lake. It’s very pleasant there. It’s a favourite spot of mine for reading, actually.”

“Is it?” Lord Crew asked. “Hmm.” He took a few steps to one side, gesturing for Jon to walk with him. “Now, do you see out there? Just between those two trees?”

Jon followed the line of his finger. “The willow?”

“Is it a willow?”

“If you’re pointing to the tree by the lake edge, yes.”

“Oh. Well, then, yes. You could build quite a lovely viewing area where the willow is, I think. It’s a fair distance from the house so it would be pleasantly quiet, the trees around it would block out any light from the house itself, and the surface of the water would make for an excellent reflecting surface, don’t you think.”

Jon pondered this. “It… yes, it would. Would the willow not get in the way of the stars, though? At least for anyone who wanted to look up.”

Lord Crew waved a hand. “I was assuming that the willow would be removed,” he said easily.

“I’m afraid that I would have to overrule any decision to remove the willow by the lake,” Jon replied, giving a quiet laugh that he hoped gave some lightness to his definitely serious words. “I’m rather fond of it, you see.”

“Oh, are you?” Lord Crew said. He looked back at Jon, the corner of his mouth twisting. “Hmm. Well, I’m sure a replacement tree could always be obtained. Willows – it is a willow, isn’t it? – are hardly rare.”

“It’s rather an old tree, though. I dare say it has some history and meaning to those who work here.”

“I’m sure they can find ‘meaning’ in a new tree just as easily as they can an old one. They’re all rather similar, really.”

“They’re not- they- are you honestly suggesting that we cut down a tree that I- that many people are fond of just to build something that would work perfectly well several yards to one side?” Jon asked. He tried to keep at least some of the snappishness and disdain from his voice, but at the same time, he didn’t feel like trying particularly hard. It seemed that his initial thoughts on Lord Crew had been correct. He supposed he shouldn’t be surprised that, once again, one of Elias’ presented suitors turned out to be someone that he’d rather not associate with, and maybe dismissing the man because of a few disagreements about gardeners and trees was a bit extreme, but Jon still felt justified. Besides, _Elias_ liked the man. That alone should be reason enough to dismiss him as a potential partner.

Lord Crew only shrugged. “A tree is a tree, Lord Sims, and plants are plants. And besides, any _good_ gardener would understand that, sometimes, it is not their job to cultivate plants but to move them to make way for something better.”

“…I see,” Jon said after a long, unpleasant pause. Distantly, he remembered his original plan to move discussion on to the sculptures in the statue garden should they run out of things to talk about, but he wasn’t feeling so fond of that idea anymore, mostly because it would involve exchanging more words with Lord Crew. “We should- we should probably return to Lord Bouchard.”

Lord Crew looked at him, one eyebrow raised. “So soon?” he asked. “I’ve seen so little of the gardens, though.”

Jon shrugged, doing his best to look apologetic. “Lord Bouchard is rather… particular,” he said. “And you said that you would be here for a week, after all. There will be plenty of time to see the rest of the garden. And if you’re right about the coming storm then we shouldn’t risk staying outside for longer than we must.”

“Hmm. I suppose you’re right. Well… thank you for showing them to me, even if only briefly.”

“It was a pleasure,” Jon said. He thought he heard Martin give a cough that sounded suspiciously like a laugh, but he didn’t look away from the lord before him. “If you’d follow me back inside…?”

Lord Crew gave a small nod. The walk back to the house was noticeably frostier than the walk away from it; Jon didn’t know if he was the only one who could feel the tension prickling in the air between them, but he also didn’t really care. There would be other suitors.

There were _always_ other suitors.

Elias was waiting for them by the doors when they returned to the drawing room. The look that he cast Jon spoke volumes, his displeasure and confusion at their brief walk clear in the line of his mouth and the slope of his eyebrow, but he said nothing save to greet them both.

Thankfully, Lord Crew spoke up before Jon could. He turned to Elias in the open doorway, sketching a quick bow to him, and then did the same to Jon, catching his gaze and holding it the entire time. “Thank you for showing me around the gardens, my lord,” he said, and once again Jon felt that odd falling sensation in his stomach, slipping through his veins like ozone. Lord Crew straightened out of his bow, and after a split second Jon returned it, using the opportunity to break eye contact with the man.

“Of course,” he murmured. “It was- it was my pleasure.”

“Perhaps you could show me some more of them tomorrow?”

Jon smiled tightly. “Perhaps.”

“I’m delighted to hear it. In that case,” Lord Crew continued, turning towards Elias, “would you please excuse me as I take my leave? I would appreciate some time to relax before dinner.”

“Oh, but of course!” Elias replied. “I will have someone fetch you. Please don’t hesitate to reach out to the staff if something isn’t to your liking.”

“Thank you, I will be sure to do so. Good day, Lord Bouchard, Lord Sims.” Lord Crew bowed once again, cast Jon one last smile, and then stepped through the doors.

With a soft _thud_ , they shut behind him. Immediately, Elias turned to Jon.

“So,” Elias asked, pre-emptive disappointment clear in his every word, “what did you think of Lord Crew?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! The next chapter will be posted on **December 14th!**


	3. Chapter 3

“No,” Jon said flatly. “No, no, absolutely not. I am- I am _not_ marrying Lord Crew.”

Immediately, Elias’ expression soured. “Oh, Jon,” he replied, tutting, “really? Again? Honestly, I don’t know what you found so disagreeable about him. He seemed a perfect gentleman to me.”

“Perhaps so, but I still disliked him.”

“You’ve known him for no longer than an hour – surely not even not even _you_ can judge someone’s character flawlessly in that short a period of time.” Elias looked at Jon, his eyes narrowing. “Have you considered, perhaps, having another conversation with the man? Maybe trying to see if your differences – of which I am _sure_ there are countless – could be resolved? For God’s sake, Jon, you’re rather quick to judge during a time when you can hardly afford to be picky.”

Jon bristled. “My lor- _Elias-_ ”

“Tell me, if you don’t mind, just what about the man so strongly put you off him.”

“He was _rude!”_ Jon exclaimed. “He was- he was rude, and unpleasant, and he-”

“Oh, yes, all of which is a perfectly reasonable excuse I am sure, as you yourself are, of course, never anything but the perfect gentleman,” Elias snapped back. “For heaven’s sake, Jonathan, you were out of my sight for thirty minutes at most! The two of you seemed to be getting along famously while you were talking about books – what on earth could Lord Crew have done to anger you so thoroughly in a mere _thirty minutes?”_

“He was- _”_ _indirectly rude to a gardener that I bumped into the other day_ , Jon wanted to say, but didn’t. He snapped his mouth shut before the words could escape him, gathering himself quickly before continuing. “He was rude about- about our gardens. About _your_ gardens.” Jon paused, glancing quickly at Elias’ face. He’d lived with Elias for long enough to know what was likely to get under his skin, and already he could see the faintest hint of Lord Crew-directed annoyance at the very corners of Elias’ mouth. For all that he preferred to spend as little time outside of his study as possible, Elias nevertheless took exceptional pride over every corner of his land and home. Jon tried not to smile. “He suggested,” he continued, “that the gardens are outdated.”

Elias sniffed. “…Well, I must admit that he has _some_ point with that statement. I’ve been meaning to upgrade the gardens for some time now.”

“Hmm. Well, Lord Crew didn’t seem to believe that you were,” Jon said as delicately as he could. “He went so far as to suggest that he contact one of his friends from town and have them refer a gardener to you, in case your choice of gardener was, ah… unskilled.”

Immediately, Elias’ expression turned icy. It was a subtle thing, just a slight sharpness gathering in his eyes and the tiniest furrow of his brow, but Jon saw it. Jon knew exactly what it meant. “…Did he now?” Elias asked.

“He did,” Jon replied. “He also suggested that we add some sort of construction near the lake. He seemed to believe that we weren’t utilising the space as well as we could be. He seemed rather… well, rather opinionated, if you must know.”

“There’s nothing wrong with having opinions,” Elias replied, but Jon could see now the soft displeasure that had crept over his guardian’s features, could hear it waiting just behind his automatic response. “A man is entitled to his own thoughts and decisions.”

“I’m sure he is.”

“…Did he remark on any other aspects of the house?”

“He did not,” Jon replied, briefly disappointed that he hadn’t given Lord Crew the opportunity to unknowingly annoy Elias even further. “But I am sure that he will be more than willing to share his thoughts with you during his stay, my l- Elias. Perhaps you could ask him for more of his opinions over dinner.”

At that, Elias’ lips tightened further, giving the distinct impression that he’d just bitten into a lemon but was too polite to comment on it.

“…Perhaps,” Elias said after a pause, “Lord Crew is not the most suitable match. Perhaps- perhaps you are right, Jonathan. And he _is_ only a baron.”

“…You’re a baron, Elias. As am I.”

“Well, yes, I suppose we are, which is why I know that you can do better than just a baron.”

“Didn’t you say just the other day that partners of all ranks are hard to come by, my lord?” Jon asked before he could stop himself, even as part of his mind flinched at the hole that he was starting to dig.

Elias, thankfully, didn’t seem to notice the pit that Jon had crafted, and merely waved a hand. “That’s no reason to settle. There are plenty of fine and respectable barons and baronesses, of course, but I must admit that I had my doubts about Lord Crew prior to his arrival.”

“Did you now?”

“Oh, of course,” Elias continued blithely, oozing a self-certainty that Jon wasn’t entirely sure was justified. It was just like Elias to reassure himself that he had, in fact, _always_ been correct, no matter the situation. “Did he mention that he’s been in the city recently? From what I’ve gathered, his own house is rather small, not a scratch on what we have here, which I suppose explains his fondness for staying away from it, and I’ve heard that when he _does_ return he keeps himself mostly to his observatory. It’s a perfectly suitable house, of course, but the man seems altogether far too dedicated to his hobbies, and what sort of a partner would that make for? A distant one, that’s what.”

“…I see,” Jon replied, making no mention at all of how only the other day Elias had reminded him that he merely had to find someone that he _tolerated_ , instead of someone who cared for him and who he cared for in return. For a moment he considered mentioning Lord Tundra, and the decidedly _distant_ relationship that he had with Elias, but he thought better of it. He’d just managed to get Elias onto his side. He couldn’t risk throwing that away by bringing up Elias’ simultaneously most and least favourite Earl. “Well, I will be sure to keep that in mind when meeting other suitors. Thank you for your words, Elias. They are most informative.”

Elias sighed. “Well, I suppose I must continue to make arrangements for you. I trust you will be able to behave yourself during dinner, Jonathan? No matter how objectionable you find Lord Crew, I am not going to send him away so soon after inviting him to stay with us. It would be the height of rudeness.”

“I’ll be perfectly polite so long as you can promise that you won’t try to encourage us to court each other.”

“But of course. You’ve made your stance on the man very clear, Jonathan, and you know that I would never dream to go against your direct wishes. If you declare the man impolite and disagreeable, someone that you could never be contentedly wed to, then I will accept your decision on the matter and merely remind you, once again, that there is nothing wrong with taking an officer’s commission instead.”

“… I’m aware.”

“Good. Well, in that case, I’ll return to my study. I’ll see you at dinner.”

Without another word, Elias left. Jon couldn’t quite make out exactly how his guardian truly felt about the whole situation, but he also didn’t particularly care. What mattered, first and foremost, was that he wouldn’t be wed to Lord Crew – Elias’ feelings came second to that. Elias’s feelings came second to many things.

Jon pulled a thoughtful face, absently moving over to the window to look out over the gardens. If he were honest, Elias’ feelings came second to just about everything.

Beyond the glass, the garden almost glowed beneath the sunlight. From within the house Jon couldn’t hear the birdsong that he knew existed beyond the walls, but he was familiar enough with it that he could imagine it without too much effort. He could see the birds fluttering from place to place, perching on the statues or flitting in and out of the hedges, seemingly undisturbed by the gardener in their midst. Jon found his gaze being drawn to the man, still working at the flowerbeds that bordered the statue garden. Martin Blackwood… he was an interesting individual, to be sure. Jon was starting to feel that he may have judged him too harshly when they first met, letting his anger and annoyance at Elias bleed over and onto the gardener. Mr Blackwood hadn’t been in any way obstructive or impolite during Jon’s conversation with Lord Crew. If anything, he’d helped to temper Jon’s growing distaste for the man, giving Jon an odd sense of comfort with the awareness that at least he wasn’t the only one taking offence at Lord Crew’s words.

At that thought Jon pulled a face, absently chewing on his lower lip. Lord Crew had certainly said some words, and if Jon was any expert at reading body language – which he absolutely was _not_ , not by any stretch of the imagination – then he would be right to think that Mr Blackwood had also taken offence at some of Lord Crew’s sweeping statements about the grounds and gardens. Normally, Jon would have been content – if somewhat uncomfortable – with letting those comments slide, leaving the gardener to their own thoughts and opinions, but it somehow felt different with Mr Blackwood. They’d spoken before, even if only briefly, and Jon had no doubt that the man had recognised him earlier. It felt _rude_ to leave the conversation there, to not offer up some sort of feeble, second-hand apology. And besides, Jon reasoned to himself, it would only be polite to talk some more to the young gardener, especially after their less than exceptional first conversation. It would… it would be being a good lord, that’s what it would be. Getting to know those who worked in and around his house. Familiarising himself with people he would see on a regular basis. It was good. It was sensible.

There was no reason _not_ to go and find Mr Blackwood.

Jon left the room before he could talk himself out of it. He was going to talk to Mr Blackwood. He was going to apologise to Mr Blackwood for Lord Crew’s words and actions. It was unusual, yes, and rather out of sorts, but it felt- it felt- it felt _necessary_ , that’s how it felt. It felt necessary, and important, and yes, maybe Jon _was_ still thinking about the quiet little laugh that Mr Blackwood had given part way through his conversation with Lord Crew, but that had nothing to do with it. He was just going to apologise, because he was polite (or at least he tried to be), and because it was the right thing to do. That was all. Nothing else.

Jon pushed open the door to the patio, making his way down the steps at a brisk and definitively unhurried pace. It didn’t take him long to locate Mr Blackwood, the gardener only a handful of yards further down the flowerbed from where Jon had last seen him, but as Jon approached, he felt his own footsteps slow, uncertainty starting to crawl over his skin. Would Mr Blackwood find it strange, being approached for no good reason by the ward of the lord of the manor? Would he find it unpleasant? Would he find _Jon_ unpleasant for interrupting him? Jon hoped not, but he was here now, slowing to a stop just a short distance away from the man in question. Mr Blackwood seemed like a pleasant enough man. Surely he would understand.

Awkwardly, uncertainly, Jon cleared his throat. “Ah… excuse me?”

Immediately, the gardener looked up, turning his head to look at Jon, and the moment their eyes met Jon could see Mr Blackwood’s eyes growing wide, his face falling into an expression of nervousness and uncertainty. “U-um, yes, my lord?”

“You’re- you’re Martin Blackwood, correct?”

The gardener nodded, a short, nervous motion that made curls of hair bounce across his forehead. “I- I, um, yes. That’s me.”

“I apologise for asking, but you were tending to the garden when Lord Crew and I were talking earlier, right?”

Martin nodded again, looking even more nervous by the second. “I- yes,” he said, his voice somewhere between cautious and nervous enough to give the impression that he was ready to bolt at any second like a startled hare. “Um… why?”

“I just- I wanted to have a word with you,” Jon said. “About our, ah, encounter in the garden earlier today.”

Immediately, Martin’s face paled. “Oh,” he said, “oh, no, I’m- I’m so sorry if I got in your way, my lord!” Martin stammered, his hands twisting together as his eyes widened. “I was- it’s- I didn’t know you were going to be walking in the garden, I wouldn’t have been here if I knew. I would have- I’m really sorry, no one told me that you were going to be outside.”

Jon frowned. “It’s a _garden_ , Mr Blackwood,” he said, “and you are a gardener, are you not?”

“I- well, yes, I am-”

“So why on Earth would I be annoyed at seeing you in the garden, doing your job?”

Martin shrugged, reaching up to rub a hand against the back of his head. “W-well, I, um, I, at my- at my previous job, you see, the lord preferred for us to be- well, I was going to say ‘seen and not heard,’ but honestly he didn’t want to see us, either. He wanted us – all of us, house staff and garden staff and just- and just _everyone_ – to be as out of the way as possible.”

Jon felt his frown deepen. “He must have been fond of his privacy.”

“I think so, but if I’m honest I think he mostly just preferred to be alone. He didn’t seem very fond of receiving guests, at least from what little I saw. Although,” Martin added, his expression turning more thoughtful, “I did see the same carriage arrive on a number of occasions. I never saw who owned it, though or…” Abruptly, his words trailed off, his eyes growing wide as he looked back at Jon. “I- I’m sorry, my lord,” he stammered, “I was gossiping, that was- I apologise, it was improper-”

Jon waved a hand. “It’s quite alright. I’m sure Lord Bouchard would tell me that I’m being improper if he knew that I was talking to you.”

“I’m sorry, would you like me to go?”

“Only if you’re feeling uncomfortable,” Jon said. “I wouldn’t- I wouldn’t want to make you uncomfortable. I’m sure that you have things to attend to – if you need to take your leave, please do say so. I won’t take offense at it.”

Martin smiled, just slightly. “Well… I _do_ have things to do, but I can spare a few minutes. I’ll be honest, I am rather enjoying our conversation so far, Lord Sims.”

The day, Jon decided absently, must be warmer than he originally thought, because there was no other reasonable explanation for the heat he suddenly felt in his face. “O-oh,” he managed to say. Yes, the day was _definitely_ warmer than he thought. That would explain his suddenly dry mouth. “Right. Good. I- I’m enjoying our conversation too.” He coughed, looking away from Mr Blackwood for a moment. “… Did your previous employer _really_ insist that you not be seen when he was in the garden?”

Mr Blackwood shrugged. “Well… yes.”

“How on Earth did he hope to achieve that?”

“Oh, he gave us a schedule,” Martin replied immediately. “It told us where we could expect him to be at particular times so that we could plan our own work around him. He wasn’t, um… he wasn’t particularly happy if we got in his way.” He shivered. “There were… words.”

Just for a moment, Jon felt a sharp flare of dislike towards Mr Blackwood’s previous employer. “He sounds like a prick,” he said before he could stop himself.

There was a single beat of shocked, surprised silence.

And then, Martin laughed. It was a short laugh, quiet and soft as though he wasn’t entirely sure of if he was _allowed_ to laugh at Jon’s words, but it was a laugh all the same, and a delightful one at that. “You- do you think so?” he asked around his quiet giggles, his words softened by the smile on his face.

Jon huffed, looking away even as he fought back his own smile. Mr Blackwood had a lovely laugh. He had a very, very lovely laugh. “I’ve encountered many an unpleasant individual in my time, Mr Blackwood. I like to think that I’m getting rather good at recognising them.”

“You’ve never met my previous employer, though.”

“Mm, I wouldn’t be so sure of that. Lord Bouchard is very keen on ensuring that I am adequately introduced to just about every damn person of importance in the surrounding area and beyond. Your previous employer would have to be quite some distance away for it to be unlikely that I’ve not met them, at least in passing, and if they _were_ so far away that rather begs the question as to why you came to Magnus House at all.”

“His house isn’t too far from here.”

“In which case, I’ve likely already met him. Which,” Jon added thoughtfully, “only makes me feel more secure in my original assessment. Most of the people that Lord Bouchard introduce me to are, uh… well, I don’t seek them out for conversation.”

At that, Mr Blackwood snorted. “Well,” he said, his amusement clear in his voice, “I’m afraid I can’t exactly comment on my previous employer’s companions, so I will defer to your greater knowledge, my lord.”

Jon gave a short breath of laughter “Hah, well… thank you.”

“You’re welcome, my lord.”

“Mm.”

“…My lord?”

“Yes?”

“Could I… is there anything I can help you with?” Martin asked.

“Oh!” Jon exclaimed. “Oh, yes, right. I- I wanted to- I wanted to apologise,” Jon said, suddenly finding himself stumbling over his words. He shifted in place, clasping and unclasping his hands behind his back. _Christ_. What was he doing? He didn’t need to be doing this, didn’t need to be apologising for the actions of another man, and yet here he was, suddenly forgetting how to speak just because a gardener was looking at him with an expression of confusion that definitely was _not_ inexplicably endearing. Jon cleared his throat, looking away, and was just about to continue when Mr Blackwood spoke up.

“Um… thank you?” he replied, giving Jon a smile that was more than a little confused. “Um, if I may ask though, my lord… what exactly are you apologising for?”

“For- for the actions of Lord Crew,” Jon replied, his tongue twisting itself into knots the longer he looked at Mr Blackwood’s smile. “Well, the- the words of Lord Crew, I suppose, since he didn’t exactly _do_ very much when we were here earlier. I just- I felt that he was being unduly harsh to you, seeing how you have only just started working here. So I, um. I. Yes.”

There. Done. He’d done what he’d come out here to do, even if he had made a bit of a fool of himself in the process. He’d never claim to be _good_ at apologies, seeing how he was, on occasion, just as much of a stuck-up prick as Melanie liked to accuse him of being, but he was normally better than that. For starters, he didn’t normally stumble over his words _quite_ so much. Still, the deed was done, which meant that all Jon had to do now was hear Mr Blackwood’s response, say his farewells, and part ways. That was all. Nothing else.

“…Thank you,” Martin said quietly. “Really,” he added, his words soft but no less honest for it. “You didn’t- you did not need to do that, my lord.”

Jon shrugged. All of a sudden, the soft late-summer warmth seemed stifling, his skin heating beneath the collar of his shirt. “It- I- it seemed polite, is all. You’re new here, and it’s- he had no reason to be so rude about you. Or- or about the garden, I suppose. Um.”

“Oh,” Martin replied. “Oh. Um. Right.”

“Yes.”

“…”

“What were you working on, anyway?” Jon asked, blurting the words out before his brain had even fully processed them. Martin’s eyes went wide, the gardener clearly just as surprised by Jon’s unexpected words as Jon himself was. “I- I mean,” Jon added, hastening to correct and clarify himself, “I was- I was curious about what it was that you were doing when Lord Crew and myself were talking. I don’t know much about gardens or- or flowers, and I was- I was curious. That is all. Are you planting something?”

“What? Oh, no, definitely not,” Martin replied immediately, “it’s too late to plant anything in the flowerbeds. In a few months once the ground is damper, then yes, maybe I’ll plant something that can weather the frost and bloom in spring, but late summer is hardly the best time to go planting bulbs.”

“O-oh,” said Jon. “I- I see.” He looked down, one hand fidgeting absently with the cuff of his sleeve. It had been a while since he’d found himself in a situation where he _didn’t_ know something. So many of his conversations were with Elias, or Georgie, or Melanie, or one of the countless lords and ladies and other esteemed individuals that Elias liked to introduce him to. Those conversations tended to revolve around topics and subjects that Jon had had drilled into him since birth – the latest novels, developments in the sciences, the newest trends in interior decorating, and the endless petty gossip of the peerage. So many of the topics were rote to Jon that it wasn’t uncommon for him to pass an entire conversation without truly thinking, just replying with whatever banal words or comments were necessary. Even when he was engaged and invested in conversation he still knew the subject matter. He could still comment on it, if nothing else, or make a few remarks of his own. At the very least, he understood the very basics of the topic at hand.

But not, it seemed, when it came to gardening.

For once in his life, Jon had absolutely no idea of what to say, and he wasn’t sure if he liked the sensation or not.

He supposed that, if he wanted to know more, he could always ask Mr Blackwood more about it.

“So,” Jon asked, trying to make himself come across as not quite as naïve and ignorant of gardening as he truly was, “if you weren’t planting anything, what were you doing?” He stretched slightly, trying to peer at the part of the flowerbed where Martin had been working earlier, but he couldn’t see anything that gave him any indication of what Martin had been up to. Admittedly, it would have taken something along the lines of a glaring and vibrant sign spelling out Martin’s actions in exact words for Jon to have any hope of determining why Martin had been poking at the soil earlier, but he tried all the same. He was good at knowing things, at figuring things out.

Not this time, though. Martin looked at him, one eyebrow raising, and then turned to follow Jon’s gaze before Jon had the chance to look away. “My lord?”

“What?”

“… If I may ask, what are you looking at?”

“What?” Jon asked, quickly turning his attention back to Mr Blackwood’s face. “What, I- I wasn’t looking at anything, Mr Blackwood.”

Just for a moment, Martin’s eyes narrowed. His mouth opened, giving the impression that he was about to talk back, to ask Jon what he was _actually_ looking at, but then he shut it again. “…Right,” he said instead. “Well, since you asked… I was weeding. So nothing too impressive or interesting, I’m afraid.”

Jon nodded. “Right. Weeding. That’s, uh… necessary.” It sounded necessary. “How often do you need to weed the garden?”

“Oh, every day,” Martin replied easily.

Jon felt his eyes widen. “ _Every day?”_ he repeated. “You can’t be serious. Do weeds really grow that quickly?”

Martin shrugged. At the corner of his mouth, Jon thought he saw a smile starting to grow, as though the gardener found some amusement at Jon’s absolute lack of knowledge. “Well… no,” he admitted, “nothing grows to full maturity in just one day, not as far as I know, but it’s difficult to see weeds when they’re still under the soil, what with how there’s… well, with how there’s _soil_ in the way. But you get new ones every day poking their way above the soil, and the quicker you catch them the less work it’ll take to remove them later. Some of them can grow very extensive root networks, too, so it really is best to catch them when they’re just sprouting. And,” he added thoughtfully, “it’s generally easier to do a little bit of work every day than a lot of work all at once, especially when you’ve got other things to be doing as well.”

“Hmm. Well, I suppose that makes sense.”

“It makes for rather a nice little routine, too, because I also have to water most of the garden every day, at least in summer. I do feel bad for them, though,” Martin continued. He shifted, turning away from Jon slightly to look back towards the flowerbed, his gaze moving right past the vibrant, beautiful blooms and instead to the gently disturbed soil around the base of them. The shifting leaves and bowing flowerheads cast dappled shade over the soil, hiding the places where the weeds had once grown.

Jon frowned. “For what?”

“The weeds.”

“…Why?”

Martin shrugged. “Because it’s- because it’s not their fault that they’re weeds, I suppose. They haven’t done anything wrong. They’re just trying to exist, the same way we all do, but for some reason we’ve decided that weeds are to be removed while other plants are to be allowed to flourish, simply because we disagree with how they look or how they act. I mean, yes, some plants are toxic, or dangerous – there’s some that can cause terrible blisters if you touch them, for example – but even those plants aren’t really _bad_. _And_ ,” he continued, not seeming to notice how Jon was watching him, halfway between confused and what could only really be called awe-struck, “even then, we still sometimes remove what we would consider ‘useful’ plants just because they are in the ‘wrong’ place! It’s- it strikes me as being very unfair. Personally. Um.” His voice trailed off, his hands starting to twist together as he looked away from Jon. “I apologise, my lord,” he murmured. “I have- I have strong opinions about gardening.”

Jon shook his head. “Don’t apologise,” he replied quietly. “That’s- it’s, um, it’s good- it’s good to see that you’re passionate about your job.” He smiled weakly, feeling entirely unsure of what to say. It had been quite some time since he’d last had a conversation like this, one that was thought-provoking and interesting and actually _engaging_ , with- well, with anyone. He’d used to have conversations like this with Elias, once upon a time, before he’d realised how truly quietly unpleasant his guardian could be, and it wasn’t rare for his conversations with Georgie and Melanie to go down some interesting paths, but even then, they were never like this.

Georgie and Melanie had never made him feel sorry for plants, for example.

He looked back at the flowerbed. For the most part, the plants in it were ones that he recognised, by sight if not by name – he’d seen them all time and time again in his walks, had seen how they bloomed and faded and died over the course of the year, but he’d never paid them much heed beyond the occasional close inspection when he was feeling particularly gloomy and sorry for himself and wanted something to take his mind off it. He’d never thought about _what_ the flowers were beyond just being flowers. If he was honest, he’d never considered the distinction between weeds and flowers at all in any great depth. As far as he was concerned, as far as he _had_ been concerned, flowers were beautiful and weeds were unnecessary and needed to be removed. That was it. There was nothing more complicated about it than that.

Except, it seemed, that there was.

“Look,” Martin said, pointing towards one flower in particular that clung close to the edge of the flowerbed, its yellow head almost glowing beneath the sunlight. “That dandelion, do you see it?”

Jon nodded. “I see it.”

“If I may ask, my lord, what do you think of it?”

Jon shrugged, peering closer at the little plant. He could see the head bobbing and bowing in the soft breeze, could see the way the leaves rested atop the soil, spread out around the plant’s stalk as though they, too, were aspiring to be a flower someday. “It’s… it’s yellow,” he said after a pause. Next to him, he thought he heard Martin sigh quietly.

“Well, yes,” he said, “but what else? Does it look out of place to you?”

“Not particularly,” Jon admitted, glancing from the dandelion to the plants around it and then back again. “It’s- well, as I said, I don’t claim to know a great deal about plants. It looks like a flower to me, albeit a small one.”

“Forget-me-nots are small.”

“…A fair point. But… no, it doesn’t look particularly out of place to me. It looks a bit lonely, though,” he added thoughtfully. He raised a hand, gesturing to the empty space around it. “If there were some more dandelions to fill out this space then I think it would look better. It would look more deliberately placed and in keeping with the rest of the flowerbed.”

“Hmm. Would you consider it a weed?”

Jon frowned at this, not looking away from the dandelion. “I… probably not,” he admitted after a while. “It doesn’t _look_ like a weed.”

From next to him, he heard Martin make a small, curious noise. “It doesn’t look like a weed? What _does_ a weed look like, my lord, if you don’t mind my asking?”

Jon shrugged. “Bad, I suppose? Unpleasant? I must admit though, I’m not even sure what _that_ means. I suppose… I don’t- I don’t know, I’ve never paid weeds much heed. I was going to say ‘something that doesn’t flower,’ but then that would make grass a weed.” He chanced a glance at Martin. Martin was smiling, giving small nods of approval which, for some reason, made Jon feel warm all over.

“Exactly,” Martin said, “There’s no all-mighty final definition on what a weed is. It all comes down to us deciding if something is useful or not, or if it’s in the right place or not. A lot of the time,” he continued, his voice growing more animated and heated by the second, “if a plant is useful doesn’t even factor into whether it’s seen as a weed! Like with dandelions - we’ve used them for hundreds of years to treat various ailments, _and_ you can use it in salads, or make wine out of it, or do any more of a hundred other useful things with it. It’s a useful plant. It’s a pretty plant, at least in my opinion. It’s sturdy, a-and it grows rapidly, and a single plant can last for ages – which can make them challenging to weed out, if that’s what you need to do to them – and in places they’re still grown deliberately. But here, right now, it’s a weed. Which means that I need to remove it.”

“Could you not let it stay?” Jon asked. “You’re the head gardener, after all. Surely you would know best.”

“Lord Bouchard is a very… definite man,” Martin replied. “And this is not my garden, Lord Sims. Yes, I was tasked with redesigning certain areas of it, and ideally I would have liked to bring more plants that so many consider ‘weeds’ back into the spotlight, but it’s _also_ part of my job to be aware of what is popular and fashionable in gardens for an estate of this size and prestige, and that doesn’t include dandelions, much as I may wish that it did.”

“Oh,” Jon said. “O-oh, well. Um.” He looked back at the dandelion. It didn’t look out of place, at least not to him. It looked perfectly fine. It looked happy, insofar as any plant can look happy, soaking up the sun and simply existing in the quiet, steady way that plants do. “That’s- I see.”

Martin hummed. “Right now, I don’t get to decide what a weed is,” he said, his voice losing some of its previous heat and becoming softer. He stepped past Jon, kneeling down beside the edge of the flowerbed, and reached out to the dandelion, brushing his fingers gently over the head of the flower. Jon watched as the petals shifted and moved beneath his fingertips as though they were reaching up to kiss his skin, the touch of his hand so soft and so kind that not one of the petals was broken or bruised. “I don’t get to decide what a weed is,” he repeated, his voice quieter this time. His fingers slipped beneath the flower, cradling it in one hand. “I don’t get a say in what stays and what goes, or in what belongs where, not here. That’s not my choice. I just… do what I have to do. That’s all.”

For a moment he stayed like that, knelt beside the flowerbed as his fingers caressed the soft, golden head of the dandelion.

And then, in one careful, decisive movement, Martin tugged on the plant, and pulled the whole thing free from the soil. For a moment it dangled from his hand, roots swaying to and fro as small clumps of dirt dropped and fell from them, scattering across Martin’s legs, and then Martin cast it to one side, adding it to a small basket that Jon hadn’t even noticed was beside them on the path.

“There,” Martin said. He stood up, brushing dirt from his trousers, and cast Jon a small, not entirely happy smile. “All done. This part of the garden is weed-free for now.”

“I never realised that gardening was quite so morbid,” Jon said quietly. “It’s, um… I thought it mostly involved watering flowers.”

That, for some reason, brought a slightly more genuine smile to Mr Blackwood’s lips. “There’s a lot of that too, my lord,” he agreed, “especially now. Watering is just as important as weeding, but I slightly prefer it because it doesn’t make me feel bad for the weeds. They get their water, just as all the other plants do. And if I have to weed them later, well… it makes me feel a little better knowing that they were cared for, even if only for a while.”

“Surely that’s worse, though?” Jon heard himself saying. “To be cared for and nurtured only to be removed later?”

“Perhaps. But at least they’re cared for at all. Although, the best way to weed a garden actually prevents weeds from ever being watered or weeded at all, but in- in a pleasant sort of way, I suppose.”

“Really? What is it?”

“You simply don’t let the weeds grow in the first place. Which I know sounds very obvious,” Martin hastened to add, seeing Jon opening his mouth to reply, “but it’s- it’s true. Weeds, like all plants, need sunlight to grow. Sometimes, if you place the plants you wish to grow close enough together, they can shade the ground enough that the weeds struggle to sprout. They don’t get enough sunlight when they’re young and so they just… die. It’s sad, in a way, but it- I think it’s kinder.”

“Kinder to die early?”

“For a plant? Yes.” Martin tucked his hands in his pockets, looking away from Jon’s face. “I don’t know if plants can suffer the way that humans can, but I’d still rather that they suffer as little as possible. It seems kinder that way.”

“I… right,” Jon said quietly. “I- I see.” He cleared his throat, feeling woefully unbalanced, but for once he found that he didn’t mind the feeling. It was almost nice, to be left so thoroughly in his thoughts after perhaps the most engaging conversation that he’d had in months. “Uh… Mr Blackwood?”

“Yes, my lord?”

“Thank you,” Jon said, his voice soft but earnest. “Thank you for this conversation, Mr Blackwood. It’s been, um… well, honestly, it’s been rather refreshing. I don’t normally get the opportunity to have conversations such as this.”

Martin smiled slightly. “What, with a gardener?”

Jon gave a short laugh. “Well… yes,” he admitted, feeling himself smiling in return, “but I meant more that most of the discussions I have fall into the same general areas, or are with the same people. Lord Bouchard is… well, he and I don’t always see eye to eye, to put it simply, and there’s rarely anyone else in the house who isn’t one of Lord Bouchard’s acquaintances.”

“…My lord?”

“Yes?”

“Forgive me for my rudeness, but could you not invite someone that you know to visit? Or perhaps go to them? You seem a perfectly respectable gentleman-“ Jon tried not to smile too much at that “-and I’m sure any friend you chose to visit would be delighted to see you.”

“I could,” he agreed, “but Lord Bouchard is always insisting that I stay and meet someone new. He’s uncannily good at inviting over guests just when I am preparing to leave for town or to see a friend, and it would be rude to leave so soon after their arrival, so I’m afraid I don’t get the chance to visit my friends as often as I like. And,” he added with a sigh, tucking his hands into his pockets and half-turning back towards the house, “I fear that he’s just going to increase his efforts, given our recent… discussion.”

“…Oh.”

“Mm.”

“… Surely _you_ could receive guests, though, just as Lord Bouchard can.”

Jon inclined his head. “I suppose I could,” he admitted. “My closest friends, though… I wouldn’t wish to disturb them. They only just got home from a trip they were taking to the Peak District. It feels rude to ask them to visit when they’ve barely had a chance to enjoy being at home again.”

“Well,” Martin said cautiously, “in that case, couldn’t they just decline your invitation if they don’t wish to visit? You said that they’re your friends – I doubt that they’d take offence at you asking them to visit, especially if you feel in need of companionship. There’s quite a difference between an extended trip to the peak district and a shorter trip to stay with a friend. And I imagine they would be able to return home should they need to.”

“That’s… I suppose that’s true.” He felt rather stupid saying it. _Of course_ Melanie and Georgie would simply decline if the timing was undesirable for them. It was a good thing, he thought, that Mr Blackwood had been there to stop him from being quite so daft. “They do have a cat, but I imagine they would be able to bring him with them, so long as I checked with Elias first.”

“They have a _cat?_ May I ask his name?”

“Of course,” Jon replied, momentarily distracted by the look that had crossed Martin’s face. “He’s- he’s called The Admiral.”

Martin’s expression somehow grew even more delighted. “That’s an _excellent_ name for a cat.”

“You think so?”

“I- I do, in fact.”

“Hmm.” Jon felt himself smiling. “I always found it rather an unusual name myself.”

“It is, but that’s what makes it so excellent, my lord.”

“Do you have a cat, Mr Blackwood?” Jon asked before he could stop himself. He wasn’t sure exactly what had inspired him to ask the question, but Martin didn’t seem to mind. He just shook his head, his expression falling slightly.

“I don’t,” he replied. “I’m afraid I don’t have much time for one.”

“Oh.” _Of course_. “I- I see.” Jon nodded, looking down at his feet. “I suppose- I suppose I should let you get back to work then, Mr Blackwood.” He looked up, catching Martin’s eye. “Thank you, for all your advice.”

Immediately, Martin smiled, all dimples and kindness and soft summer sunlight. “Of course, Lord Sims. I’m glad I could help.”

“You did. A lot.” Jon paused, unsure how his next words would be received, and then cautiously continued, “would you… would it be alright if I were to disturb you again if I encounter you in the garden? If you’re not too busy, that is. I’m starting to get the impression that there’s a lot more to gardening than I originally thought.”

“Of course!” Martin replied, his response practically instantaneous. Impossibly, his smile grew even wider and even softer. “I would- yes, that would be more than alright, Lord Sims.”

“Oh. Oh, um, good. I… good.” Jon nodded. “In that case I should, um, I should be getting back to the house. Good day, Mr Blackwood.”

“Good day, Lord Sims.” Martin bowed towards Jon, his eyes sparkling. “Perhaps I’ll see you in the garden again soon.”

“I’d like that,” Jon replied. He could feel himself smiling back. He couldn’t stop it. “I would really, really like that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! The next chapter will be posted on **December 23rd!**


	4. Chapter 4

“Elias,” Jon said the next day, when the silence hanging around the dining table in the absence following Lord Crew’s departure had become close to choking, “I was- I had a favour to ask, if you’d be so kind.”

Elias hummed, not looking up from his plate. “Go ahead, Jonathan.”

Jon swallowed. He’d deliberately waited a few days since Lord Crew had left to ask Elias the question he was about to, not wanting to annoy his guardian any more than was strictly necessary. Lord Crew’s departure had been… not bad, not really, but definitely unpleasant and uncomfortable, with an odd air of animosity brewing between every individual in the room like a gathering storm. Lord Crew hadn’t been thrilled at Elias’ less than subtle hints that he leave, and Elias hadn’t been thrilled at Jon’s rejection of the man _or_ at Lord Crew’s equally unsubtle hints about the supposedly outdated garden and furnishings, and Jon had just been grumpy in general, which was admittedly his default state of being around Elias no matter what, but had been particularly bad on that day. After that event, it only seemed sensible that he give Elias a few days to calm down before bringing up Martin’s suggestion.

Jon cleared his throat, looking fixedly at the wall directly over Elias’ left shoulder. “I was wondering,” he said, “if I could perhaps invite some friends of mine to visit and stay for a while? Lady Barker and Lady King, specifically.”

“Why? Are you bored, Jonathan?”

“Not particularly. But I’m aware that you would likely prefer that I not go on long excursions to town given your- given our…” Jon trailed off, waving a hand that Elias didn’t see. “Um. So I thought that I would, instead, invite my friends here, so that they might keep me company between other guests. Also,” he added, “I would appreciate having some company of people my own age, Elias.”

Elias glanced up, just for a moment. “You would have company if you decided to stop rejecting every suitor that I present you with,” he remarked, his tone as calm and as level as ever.

Jon glared at him. “You know perfectly well what I mean, Elias.”

“And you know what _I_ mean, Jonathan. Besides, need I remind you-”

“You _do not_ need to remind me of your- of our _agreement_ ,” Jon interrupted. “I’m aware, Elias. I’m aware that I have a year. And I am aware that the more time I spend _not_ seeing suitors, the less time I have to find someone to settle down with. I am aware. You do not need to remind me.”

The smallest hint of a smile danced around the corner of Elias’ mouth. Jon would have done anything to see it vanish. “Good,” Elias said. “I’m very glad to hear it, Jonathan. Well, as long as you are aware of what you’re doing… yes, of course your friends are allowed to visit, for however long they wish.”

Jon squinted. That felt easy. Too easy. _Suspiciously_ easy. But at the same time, he wasn’t going to look this particular gift horse in the mouth, even if he _did_ normally examine every square inch of any gift horse named ‘Elias.’ “…Thank you-”

“Provided, of course, that you will allow me to introduce you to someone while waiting for them to arrive.”

Perhaps he should have inspected the horse after all.

From the other end of the table, Elias smiled at him. “Well?” he asked. “I think it’s a perfectly reasonable arrangement that would keep us both satisfied. It would allow you to enjoy the company of people your own age, after all.”

“Lord Crew barely left a few days ago,” Jon snapped, “and I believe you said something about suitors being thin on the ground?”

“I did say something akin to that,” Elias acknowledged.

“And yet you’ve managed to find another so soon.”

“Ah, you misremember. I believe I said that _barons_ were thin on the ground, Jonathan. Sir Gerard Keay is a baronet. He’s perfectly respectable, has his own business and family money, and would make for a fine partner. I simply thought that I would introduce the two of you while he’s in the area, that’s all.”

“’In the area’ the same way that Lord Crew was?”

“But of course,” Elias replied, smiling quietly. “If you must know, he’s visiting the county with his mother.”

Just for a moment, Jon choked. “His _mother_?”

“Mhmm. She’s an old friend of mine. We used to work together quite closely but we haven’t seen each other in a while. I thought I would invite her for a visit. Just while she was passing through, of course.”

“And I suppose it’s just chance that she has her son accompanying her?”

“He’s a polite young man, Jon, just as I said. Of course he’d accompany his mother on a journey. It’s only proper.”

“… Will she also-”

“She’ll be staying with us too, yes,” Elias replied. Just for a moment he glanced up at Jon. “You will, of course, be expected to join me in greeting them both when they arrive. They’ll have had a long journey, and I won’t have you skulking around upstairs like a disgruntled ghost. You’ll join me in greeting them, and if it just so happens that you and Sir Gerard get on, well… so much the better.”

“ _Fine.”_ It wasn’t like he had much choice in the matter, not really. “Will- will Sir Gerard and his mother be arriving soon??

“Oh, they’re already on their way,” Elias said easily. “They’ll be arriving in just a few days.”

_Of course_ , Jon thought bitterly. _Of course_ they were already on their way. Of course Elias had already reached out to them, had already invited them to stay, with no thought as to Jon’s own comfort. That last bit was hardly a surprise, though. When had Elias ever cared about Jon’s comfort, beyond the physical? It shouldn’t have come as a shock to Jon, being reminded of just how much Elias loved to meddle, but something about this, about this particular situation, irked him more than any of the others had.

And then it clicked.

“You _planned_ this!” Jon exclaimed. “You thought that I might reject Lord Crew and so you _planned_ this!”

Elias tutted. “Oh, please, Jon, do you really think me quite so Machiavellian? No. I simply _intuited_ that you may, as you have so many times before, decline the suitor that I put before you, and it just so happened that a friend of mine would be in the area with her son, so I thought that they might visit. If all went well with you and Lord Crew then there would be no issue of having another guest in the house, and if things didn’t go so well then you would perhaps be able to make a new friend. I assure you, Jonathan, that I had nothing but your best interest at heart. Sir Gerard-”

“No.”

“-Sir Gerard will be arriving in a few days, Jonathan,” Elias continued, not seeming to notice Jon’s objection. “He’s a perfectly fine young man, even if his style is a bit… uncommon.”

“ _Elias.”_

“ _Jonathan_ ,” Elias replied sharply, the abrupt change in his tone making Jon’s words wither on his tongue. “Need I remind you that you still live under my roof? I have been patient with you so far, with your constant dismissal and rejection of just about every individual that I introduce you to. The very least that you can do in return is humour me on occasion. Perhaps you may even _like_ Sir Gerard.”

_I doubt it_ , Jon thought but did not say. _I doubt that I’ll like anyone who has your own personal stamp of approval._ He was aware that his disdain and ire for the majority of Elias’ suggested suitors was something of a self-fulfilling prophecy, putting him in a bad mood and a general mindset of dislike before he even met the individual in question, but he also really, _really_ didn’t care. Elias was- he was- well, he was _Elias_. He was Elias Bouchard, master of Magnus House, Jon’s guardian until he was married, and generally an absolute, unmitigated _dick_ , who masked his prying nature and fondness for needling Jon until he snapped beneath smiles and lavish words. He was awful. Jon hated him. Jon hated everyone that Elias considered himself to be a friend of. He even disliked Peter Lukas, the Earl of Tundra, for all that he’d only met the man on a couple of occasions and never for more than a few seconds. Anyone, he felt, that willingly and happily associated themselves with Elias was probably _also_ a dick by extension. It only made sense.

Which, of course, meant that this Sir Gerard was also probably going to be a dick. Or a prat, or a fool, or someone else that Jon would, in some way, struggle to get along with. He would have to try to get along with him, and converse with him, and tolerate him, and find yet another excuse to spend as little time as possible with the man, and it would be _awful_. It would be awful, and hellish, and, Jon realised with another flash of anger so strong that his nails cut into the skin of his clenched fist, he had absolutely _no_ say in the matter. Elias was master of the house. Elias was his guardian. And despite his age, despite his waiting inheritance, despite _everything_ , Jon ultimately had no more control over the coming and goings of most visitors than a gardener would.

The sooner he accepted that the guest would be arriving, the sooner he forced himself to come to terms with it, the better.

_“Fine_ ,” Jon spat, “fine, yes, alright. I’ll meet this- this Sir Gerard.”

“And his mother,” Elias added.

“…And his mother.”

_“Excellent_ ,” Elias replied. He met Jon’s eye, his smile merely widening. On the skin of his palm, Jon could feel his nails cutting little crescent moons of condensed anger and frustration. “Well, in that case, feel free to invite Lady Barker and Lady King. Be sure to give them my best.” He rose from the table, all smug smiles and despicable delight. “It’ll be lovely to see them again. I’ll have the housekeeper make up a guest suite for them.”

Jon forced himself to take a breath, so that when he replied his words were at least _marginally_ level. “…Thank you, Elias,” he managed to make himself say, and if Elias noticed the tone that lurked just beneath the surface of Jon’s words, then he didn’t comment on it.

“My pleasure. Now, eat up, and enjoy the day.” Elias rose from the table. “I’ll be in my study should you need me,” he added, and with that he left, gliding out of the room and down the hall like an ostentatious swan, if a swan could somehow be even more of a bastard. Martin would probably know if there was a bird that was more of a bastard than a swan, Jon thought past the fog of anger and annoyance that was still swirling through his skull. A goose, probably. He’d heard they were pricks. Elias could definitely be a goose.

After several long, silent seconds, Jon felt calm enough to move again. He rose, muttering his quiet thanks to the staff, and made his way to a little office at the back of the house, shutting the door behind himself with a touch more force than was really necessary. It was a smaller room, with furniture that leaned close to ‘practical and comfortable’ than ‘ostentatious and just uncomfortable enough to make you really regret sitting on it after half an hour or so,’ but Jon had always preferred it to the rest of the house. If he didn’t worry so much about accidentally becoming Elias and spending all his time shut away in one room, he probably would have spent more time in it, enjoying the soft, familiar scent of dust and ink and old, polished wood and appreciating the views of the gardens that lay beyond the glass of the windows. It wasn’t Jon’s study, not officially, but it was the closest he had, and whenever he wanted to get away from Elias but couldn’t justify going outside, it was where he chose to retreat to.

Jon didn’t think he’d ever penned a letter to Georgie as quickly in his entire life. It was a brief letter, missing the details that he tended to fill his correspondence with, but everything that needed to be included in it was there, and so barely a few minutes later Jon stepped out to pass the letter on to be posted before returning to the office. With any luck the letter would arrive within a few days, and his friends would follow shortly thereafter. Even the mere thought of having to spend yet more time around Elias and _another_ poncy lord made Jon feel like he was withering away inside. _Christ_. He needed- he needed to get married. He needed to get married, or accept a life in the military, or shun his name and fortune and run away and find some simple life where he would never have to interact with members of the peerage and gentry ever again. Maybe he could become a gardener? Or- or a butcher? A tailor, maybe. There were plenty of jobs out there in the world, and he had skills, he knew that he did. He was very good with organisation, and he was a fast reader, and his hands were quite nimble; those skills had to be good for _something_.

Jon turned his head, looking out of the window and out across the gardens as he propped his head up on his hand. He was fully aware that what he was entertaining was nothing more than a flight of romantic fancy, and that there were far, _far_ worse things in life than simply having to marry someone in order to stay rich and comfortable, but for now he saw no problem with letting himself dream and mope, even if only for a while. God, that would be nice, to live life on his own terms. That would be so, so nice. To not live with Elias, to not have to worry about his inheritance, to simply be himself and be _comfortable_ being himself… that would be nice. It would be more than nice, in fact, but Jon didn’t let himself follow that train of thought too far. He’d done that before, when he was feeling particularly glum, and it never made him feel any better. It just made him yet more aware of how different things could be, and how different they weren’t.

In the garden beyond the glass, a figure stepped into view, kneeling down beside one of the flowerbeds. For a moment Jon didn’t process what he was looking at, still caught up in fantasies of how things could be if his guardian had been anyone other than Elias, but then something, some stirring of movement caught his eye, and his gaze snapped to the individual in question.

The moment Jon laid eyes on them, he felt himself starting to smile.

_Mr Blackwood_. Ridiculously, Jon felt as though he would recognise Mr Blackwood anywhere, for all that they’d had barely a handful of conversations. There was something about the man that drew Jon’s gaze to him and then captured it, making him feel as though he couldn’t look away even if he had wanted to. Jon leaned a little further forward in his chair, his elbow digging into the surface of the desk. It was about the same time of day that Jon had seen Mr Blackwood while talking with Lord Crew, he realised. Perhaps Mr Blackwood had some sort of schedule that he followed, one that resulted in him always being in various points of the garden at various times of day. Did gardening have a schedule? _Could_ gardening have a schedule? Jon frowned to himself, absently tapping his fingers against the desk as he continued to watch Martin. Perhaps it did. Perhaps, for all that gardening dealt with the inherent entropy and quiet chaos that was nature, it was still possible to organise it. Martin certainly seemed skilled with organising it, at the very least embracing the natural disorder of plants, even if, Jon remembered, he wasn’t so fond of certain aspects of it.

Out in the garden, Mr Blackwood paused for a moment, sitting back and raising a hand to wipe it across his forehead. From this distance Jon couldn’t make out the dirt that clung to his hands, couldn’t make out the curls that stuck to his forehead, but he could imagine them. He’d seen them well enough during their talk in the wake of his thankfully brief garden walk with Lord Crew, and had seen them a couple of times since whenever he’d happened across Martin in the garden and had traded a few words with him. Admittedly, all they’d really done so far was greet each other politely and exchange a few words about the weather or the state of the garden, but something about their quiet, soft conversations made them stick in Jon’s brain. They’d been… nice. They’d all been nice. They’d been quiet, and calm, and a little bit stammered and a little bit flustered and a little bit uncertain on Jon’s end, but they’d always been _nice_. They’d been comfortable. There hadn’t been any associated stress with them, not the way that there always was when Jon was talking to one of his suitors, curling around his wrists and up his neck until he felt like he could choke on it. There was none of that. There was just Martin.

It would, Jon thought, be so much easier if he could talk to Martin instead of to whichever stuffy lord or lady or baronet or baroness Elias insisted on introducing him to next. He _liked_ Martin, even if the total number of their conversations could be counted on one hand, with their conversation after the situation with Lord Crew being the longest by a significant margin. He liked Martin, and he liked the way his face brightened into a smile the couple of times that Jon had greeted him in the garden, and he liked the conversation they’d had about weeding, and he liked how much Martin truly cared for the plants that he tended. He liked Martin’s laugh, even if he’d only heard it once. He’d like to hear it again. He’d really like to hear it again. It had been a good laugh, a real laugh, a _proper_ laugh, a little bit rough and a little bit stifled but it had been a laugh all the same, given because Martin had genuinely found some amusement in what Jon had said and not because he _wanted_ Jon to like him. Jon was far too accustomed to that type of laugh, the type that clung to his skin like spiderwebs. Martin didn’t laugh like that. Martin laughed like Martin. Martin spoke like Martin, and acted like Martin, and Jon was well aware that Martin probably acted different around his own close friends, what with how he was a lord and Martin was a gardener, but he still got the feeling that, beyond the necessary niceties, Martin didn’t try to be anyone more or anyone other than who he was. There was no pretence, no deceit. There was just Martin.

God, but Jon wanted to talk to him. He wanted to leave the house, and go out to the garden, and speak to Martin and tell him about the imminent arrival of Sir Gerard and ask if he might mind Jon frequently conversing with him during Sir Gerard’s stay. He wanted to ask Martin if he’d ever had to deal with something similar.

He wanted to ask Martin what his favourite plant was.

But… no. He couldn’t. He couldn’t spend all his time talking to Mr Blackwood once Sir Gerard arrived, much as he may like to. He’d have to greet Sir Gerard, and trade dull small talk with him, and have quiet, polite, stilted conversation with him where Elias could keep an eye on them both, watching over them like a spectacled, ostentatious hawk. He’d have to balance how annoying he found the man with how much he valued his own personal freedom. He’d have to consider how much he’d enjoy that freedom if it meant being tied to Sir Gerard.

In the garden beyond the glass, where the breeze made the flowers bow their head to the trees that lay scattered across the ground, Mr Blackwood was still gardening, carefully and efficiently working his way around the flowerbeds. It would be so much easier, Jon thought, if he could simply marry Martin Blackwood instead. He barely knew the man in the grand scheme of things, barely knew him beyond their handful of short conversations, but he already knew that he liked Mr Blackwood a damn sight more than he liked pretty much anyone that Elias had ever introduced him to. He liked Martin almost as much as he liked _Georgie_ , which was something that he had previously thought to be impossible, because Georgie was Georgie and no one else even came close to being quite as brilliant as her. And yet here Martin was, putting himself right up alongside Jon’s childhood best friend simply by being himself. Maybe with future conversation he’d turn out to be just as distasteful as Lord Crew, or Lady Prentiss, or any of the other people that Jon had met in his unwilling search for a partner, but Jon doubted it. There was none of the quiet _wrongness_ that Jon so often noticed in Elias’ friends. There was no faint air of deceit that made his hair stand on end, was no suggestion of deception, was nothing other than absolute, complete honesty. Martin didn’t pretend to be interested in Jon’s interests. He didn’t try to make himself seem important or impressive. He was just himself. Nothing else. Nothing extra.

He was the kind of person that Jon could see himself spending a lot of time with.

He wondered if Martin thought the same about him. He wondered if Martin liked chatting with him just as much as he liked chatting with Martin. He hoped so. He hoped that Martin didn’t mind their conversations, that he wasn’t just putting up with Jon because he had to. Jon didn’t think that he was, not entirely, but that didn’t stop the doubt from twisting through his mind. God, he hoped that that wasn’t the case. He hoped that Martin spoke to him because he actually genuinely _liked_ Jon’s company, or at least tolerated him.

Jon snorted to himself at that thought. _Tolerated_. That was all he was looking for at this point when it came to suitors – someone that he could tolerate. He knew he tolerated Martin, and yet he struggled to find anyone that Elias deemed ‘suitable’ that he found as pleasant to talk to as he did the gardener. Things would be so much easier if he could just marry Martin and be done with it all, provided of course that Martin was willing.

Outside in the garden, Martin rose from beside the flowerbed, brushing a hand over his forehead before moving on. There was a small smile on his face, soft and contented, and Jon found himself smiling in return even though he knew that Martin couldn’t see him.

Yes, he thought. The world would certainly be much easier, and much pleasanter, if he could marry Martin Blackwood instead.

\---

Sir Gerard’s carriage arrived two days later, rolling up to the front of Magnus House with an air of quiet solemnity. Jon, at Elias’ insistence, stood with his guardian at the entrance of the house, ready to greet the new arrival. Why Elias insisted that he be present to greet the baronet but not the baron, Jon had no idea, but he’d already decided against arguing with Elias yet again. He knew all too well that Elias only ever seemed to find joy in watching Jon’s frustration and annoyance, as though he somehow gained power from the suffering of others. Jon snorted, watching at the carriage rolled to a stop. At this point in his life, it wouldn’t surprise him if that actually was the case.

And as though he could read Jon’s mind, Elias chose that moment to speak up.

“Remember your manners, Jonathan,” Elias murmured quietly. “I trust you will at least _try_ to be civil around Lord Gerard?”

Jon, by some miracle, managed not to glare. “You don’t need to tell me to mind my manners, Elias. I do _actually_ know how to be polite.”

“Mm, I’m sure that you do. But still, it never hurts to remind you, just on the off-chance that you were feeling, ah, _particularly_ tetchy today.”

“Elias-”

“No, no, no more discussion, Jonathan!” Elias interrupted. “They’re here!”

Footmen bustled around the carriage, a pair holding the horses still as another went to open the door. Despite himself, Jon found himself craning forwards slightly, trying his best to peer inside the carriage and catch a glimpse of its occupants as if that would in any way help him with the situation at hand. Frustratingly, though, the inside of the carriage was too dark for him to see anything, but barely a split second later there was a slight shift of movement, and someone rose to exit the carriage.

To Jon’s surprise, the first person out of the carriage was not a young man but instead an elderly lady, her grey hair pulled sharply back as she helped herself out of the carriage and across the grounds towards the house, ignoring the footmen who reached out in an attempt to aid her. She was dressed plainly, almost severely, but undeniably well; her clothes were well-made, adding to the cold beauty that was still present on her face.

“Bouchard!” she called, walking towards the house with strides that seemed far more powerful than Jon had expected given how frail she looked. Her voice, like her steps, was also stronger than Jon had expected. “It’s good to see you again.”

“Lady Keay!” Elias replied warmly. He stepped forwards, descending the steps at the front of the house to greet her. “It’s been too long. How are things?” He reached out, clasping her hands warmly and shaking them before letting go to step back.

Lady Keay hummed, the corner of her mouth twitching slightly. “They’re fine. Going about as well as can be expected, all things considered.” Her gaze shifted, sliding over Elias’ shoulder and settling on Jon. “And this is your ward, I take it?”

Even without seeing his face, Jon could hear the very specific smile in Elias’ voice. “That he is, my lady.” Elias turned, beckoning for Jon to join them. Jon drew in a breath, holding it for a second, and exhaled it as slowly as he could before plastering a smile on his face and following Elias out onto the gravel. “Jonathan, this is Lady Mary Keay. She’s an, ah, an old friend. Lady Keay, this is my ward Jonathan Sims.”

“Charmed,” Jon murmured, bowing. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, my lady.”

“Likewise,” Lady Keay replied. As Jon straightened from his bow her eyes darted over him, and something in them made him want to shiver. Her gaze seemed… cold, somehow, as though she was stripping away his skin to see what lay alongside his bones, and found whatever she saw to be lacking. For a moment Jon found himself remembering the illustrations of sharks that he’d come across in one of his books once, with their cold eyes and viciously beautiful and elegant forms, but then the moment passed. “I’ve heard a lot about you, Lord Sims.”

“Y- have you?” Jon heard himself stammering. Lady Keay kept looking at him. It made his skin crawl. “That’s, uh, that’s-”

“You seem to have a lot in common with my son.”

“R-right, I- so I’ve been told.”

“Hm.” She hummed quietly, looking over him once more, and then turned to look back at the carriage. “Gerard!” she called. “Come along, now, that’s enough sulking. You need to meet Lord Bouchard and Lord Sims.”

There was no noise from the carriage, but a moment later Jon watched as another individual stepped out of it. The second person out of the carriage was a young man of around Jon’s age, his long black hair tied back behind his head in a manner that reminded Jon somewhat of his own hair styling preference. He didn’t seem too bad, at least not at first glance, and as Jon watched him step out of the carriage, he quietly murmured something to the footmen that made them smile.

He was also, rather oddly, dressed almost entirely in black. Jon would admit that his own taste in clothes ran rather plain, especially in comparison to the wardrobe that Elias liked to keep, but even then, the lack of colour was borderline startling. It didn’t look bad, though. It just looked… odd. Unusual. It put Jon in mind of some of the more dramatic, gothic novels that he’d read in the past, full of ghosts and ghouls and mystery. Maybe that was why Elias thought they might get along. Maybe this man, this Sir Gerard Keay, also had a fondness for reading.

Jon tried not to snort. _Right_. Lord Crew had shared his fondness for books, and look how that had turned out. Sharing interests was far from a guarantee that they’d actually get along. And whether they got along or not, it wasn’t like Jon would have much of a choice when it came to spending time with him.

“Sir Gerard Keay,” the man said as he stopped before them, bowing to Jon politely and giving him a quick smile. It was a perfectly pleasant smile as far as Jon was concerned, though touched with a quiet sense of tiredness that Jon could only imagine was caused by the long journey the baronet and his mother had taken to get to the house. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Lord Sims.”

“Likewise,” Jon replied, returning the bow automatically. Already he could feel the familiar tendrils of automatic dislike coiling around his shoulders, making him judge the man before him more harshly than he knew he really should. It wasn’t Sir Gerard’s fault that he was here. It wasn’t Sir Gerard’s fault that Elias’ favourite hobby was introducing Jon to endless suitors, each and every one of whom turned out to be a prick. It possibly wasn’t even Sir Gerard’s fault that he was here, seeing how friendly Lady Keay was with Jon’s guardian, but Jon wasn’t going to believe that until he knew for certain.

By his side, there was a soft sound as Elias clapped his hands. “It’s so wonderful to see you two meet,” he said, sickly-sweet false sincerity hanging on every word. “Now, why don’t we all go inside? Lady Keay, allow me to show you the changes we’ve made to the sitting room recently.”

Neither Jon nor Sir Gerard said anything further as they followed Elias inside, and a handful of seconds later they were all making themselves comfortable in the sitting room, with Elias and Lady Keay sitting at one end while Jon and Sir Gerard seated themselves at the other, Elias having given Jon a very pointed look when he’d quietly suggest that Jon _get to know_ the young man. As if Jon needed the reminder. He was all too aware of what his role was. It was one he’d played too many times as it was.

It was also, it seemed, a role that Sir Gerard was equally reluctant to play.

Beneath the sound of Elias and Lady Keay’s conversation, Jon could hear the quiet ticking of the grandfather clock. Thankfully, the clock in this room ticked at a much more pleasant and regular pattern than the one in Elias’ study, but the sound of it still burrowed into his brain as the silence between himself and Sir Gerard grew and stretched. Jon knew that he should do something about it, that he should break the silence by asking something banal and polite, and he’d just about resigned himself to yet another trite, boring conversation, when his train of thought was shattered by Sir Gerard speaking up.

“Was that your first time meeting my mother?” Sir Gerard asked, his voice unexpectedly soft and quiet. “She can be rather… well, rather chilly on a first meeting.”

“She was, ah… she was perfectly polite,” Jon replied. He didn’t feel that being rude about Sir Gerard’s mother so soon after meeting the man was a particularly good idea, and he’d had more than enough practise at being careful with what he said. “She seems to be an interesting woman.”

“That’s certainly one way of putting it,” Sir Gerard replied, giving a dry smile. “She’s… I believe I’ve heard her described as having a strong character.”

“She… I think I would have to agree with that assessment.”

Sir Gerard opened his mouth, presumably about to speak again, and then paused. He glanced over to Jon, his brows drawing together briefly, and then looked over Jon’s shoulder and towards his mother before looking back. “… Lord Sims?”

Jon frowned. “Yes?”

“May I speak freely?”

An odd question, but a potentially interesting one. “Of course.”

Sir Gerard leaned forwards slightly. “If I’m honest,” Sir Gerard said, his voice lowering conspiratorially, “I can’t stand her.”

That was… blunt. Jon paused, feeling caught off-guard. He wasn’t accustomed to this. He wasn’t accustomed to actual _honesty_ , and he’d had a long, long time to learn to spot the difference between well-crafted lies and the actual truth.

“Really?” he asked, keeping his tone level. For all that it felt like honesty, he still wasn’t yet willing to risk this being some sort of ploy.

“Truly,” Sir Gerard replied. “She’s- well, ‘infuriating’ only just starts to describe it, I’m afraid.” He smiled, but it was a small, uncertain thing. “I apologise for being so rude, but you asked me and so-”

“Oh, no, no, I understand entirely,” Jon replied quickly, glancing over at Elias. For a moment he was worried that he might make eye contact with Elias, that Elias might be watching them converse, but the lord seemed entirely caught up in conversation with Lady Keay. Jon looked back towards Sir Gerard, feeling himself starting to smile. “I can’t stand Lord Bouchard, either,” he admitted quietly, leaning forward slightly. For a moment he worried that he’d somehow crossed some line by speaking up against his guardian even though Sir Gerard had done the exact same not even a second earlier, but the thought barely had time to form before Sir Gerard’s smile widened, his expression losing its uncertain edge.

“Oh,” he said. “Oh, well, that’s certainly good to know. Though, if I’m honest, I can’t say I’m surprised. My mother seems fond of Lord Bouchard, which is a bad mark on anyone as far as I’m concerned.”

“Really?”

“Oh, yes. She’s not got the best taste in people. I mean, I admit that _my_ taste in people is far from perfect too, but a lot of her acquaintances tend to be people that I don’t exactly get along with, to put it mildly.”

Jon raised an eyebrow. It felt rude, to be discussing Lady Keay and Lord Bouchard in such a manner when the individuals in question were sat just on the other side of the room, and it absolutely was, but it was also an undeniable relief, even if it did come with a quiet, lingering feeling of paranoia. Jon still didn’t think that Lord Gerard was lying – at least, he _hoped_ that Lord Gerard wasn’t lying – but he wouldn’t put it past his guardian to have in some way plotted and planned with Lord Gerard to… Jon didn’t know. Lull him into a false sense of security? Find out what Jon truly thought of him? He hardly needed to ask someone to talk to Jon to be aware of that. Elias was almost as good at spotting lies as Jon was. He had the same eye for attention and detail, and Jon knew all too well what it felt like to have that eye turned on him.

“I’m sorry about all this, by the way,” Sir Gerard said, interrupting Jon’s half-contemplative, half-paranoid thought process. “Truly, I am. No, don’t apologise – I saw your face when we met. I just wanted to assure you that it wasn’t my decision to come out, but my mother received a summons from Lord Bouchard which apparently specifically requested that I accompany her, and so… here we are. She didn’t give me much say in the matter.”

“If it’s any comfort,” Jon said, for a moment worrying that he might offend the man with his words, “Elias didn’t give _me_ much say in the matter, either. He just told me that we had guests arriving and that I needed to meet you.”

Sir Gerard smiled. It was a small smile, a private smile, but it made his eyes crinkle in a way that made Jon feel as though there were sharing an inside joke. It was quite a nice smile, Jon thought. It was certainly much nicer that Lord Crew’s.

“I suppose that makes us equal, then,” Sir Gerard replied. “My mother forces me to meet you; your guardian forces you to meet me.

Jon stifled a breath of resigned laughter. “He’s forced me to meet many people. He’s… well, he’s…”

“What?”

“He’s a dreadful meddler,” Jon said eventually. It felt like a weak complaint, pathetic and flimsy, but it was true, and from the expression on Lord Gerard’s face, he understood it all too well.

“Oh, God, so’s my mother,” he replied, glancing over his shoulder towards her. “She’s been obsessed with me getting married. Has been for years, truth be told.”

“Really?” Jon asked. “Lord Bouchard is much the same. He likes to say that he ‘owes it to my parents’ to see me wed. That, and he seems to delight in causing me as much annoyance and frustration as possible, and this is presumably just another outlet for it.”

“I wonder what they get out of it. Our suffering, that is.”

Jon shrugged. “God only knows,” he replied dryly. “Some sort of strange, cosmic power, perhaps? Elias certainly seems to thrive on it, whatever it is. I swear, he’s never happier than when he gets to introduce me to some new, poncy lord or lady and force me to put up with them and their nonsense. No offense to you, of course,” he added quickly.

Sir Gerard just smiled. “Please,” he replied, the word halfway to a laugh, “none taken. I’ve met my fair share of, ah, poncy lords and ladies too, I assure you. Honestly, it’s a marvel that my mother and your Lord Bouchard didn’t think to introduce us earlier. Although,” he continued, just as Jon was trying to figure out a polite way to tell Sir Gerard that it was likely because he was a baronet, and because, despite his claims to the contrary, Elias really _did_ want Jon to marry someone more ‘suitable,’ “it’s probably because of the family business. Mother and Lord Bouchard get along just fine, as long as rank doesn’t come into it. There’s some… unpleasantness there.”

“I can imagine. Lord Bouchard is… he has a strong character,” Jon replied, and Sir Gerard laughed quietly.

“Clearly,” he agreed. “I feel we could discuss the shortcomings in our guardians all day, though I can’t imagine they’d be particularly happy if they knew that’s what we were talking about.”

“Lord Bouchard will likely just be happy to know that I’m talking to you at all.”

“Are you not fond of conversation, Lord Sims?”

“Not with people with strong characters,” Jon replied, making Sir Gerard smile.

“Then how about we talk about something else?” he asked. “My mother gave me very firm instructions to get to know you, so I suppose we might as well do that. Appease our guardians, if nothing else.” He leaned back slightly, a smile still tugging at his lips. “Tell me about yourself, Lord Sims? What are your interests? Your hobbies?”

“I rather enjoy walking, actually,” Jon said, surprising himself with the immediacy of his answer. He wasn’t normally so forthcoming with his interests, preferring to keep them to himself and away from the eyes of others, but somehow he didn’t mind so much with Sir Gerard. “I- Lord Bouchard tends to have a lot of guests that he insists on me meeting so I don’t get many chances to get away from the house. It’s- it’s a fine house, of course, but sometimes it can get… stifling, I suppose. I- I like going on walks. The estate is, um, it’s rather large, and once you get far enough away you can’t see the house or the lawns anymore. Its- it’s nice.”

He looked down, fidgeting with the cuff of his sleeve as he trailed off. Somehow, for all that he really hadn’t said much at all, he still felt like he’d almost said too much, like he’d told Sir Gerard too much about himself in that single small explanation of one of his hobbies, but it also felt bizarrely alright. Maybe it was the way that Sir Gerard looked at him while he was speaking; quietly, thoughtfully, not interrupting Jon or rushing him to finish or adding some remark of his own but actually _listening_. It was… it was nice. It was _weird_. It made Jon feel like he was being _observed_ , which he supposed that he was, and he couldn’t tell if he liked the feeling or not. It certainly wasn’t one that he was particularly accustomed to, certainly not from anyone other than Melanie or Georgie. It reminded him somewhat of Martin.

“I don’t get to do much in the way of country walking myself,” Sir Gerard said, when it became apparent that Jon wasn’t going to continue. “My mother… well, unlike your Lord Bouchard, who, from what I’ve gathered, likes to keep you in the house, my mother’s almost the opposite. She liked to keep us in town as much as possible, having meetings and discussing business and all that. I understand that I need to be there – learn the family business, ensure that I can keep it running after her passing – but it’s still tiring.”

“I can imagine. It’s never pleasant feeling as though you’re being controlled.”

“Or observed.”

Jon’s smile grew at that. “Yes,” he agreed. “Or observed.”

“Well… with luck, maybe our respective guardians won’t keep quite so much of an eye on us for the next few days,” Sir Gerard said quietly, nodding pointedly to where Elias and Lady Keay were still caught up in conversation, seemingly unaware of the world around them. “I don’t think my mother’s seen Lord Bouchard in- well, in years, honestly. I imagine they’ve got a fair amount to discuss.”

“I wouldn’t be surprised if they were discussing _us_ ,” Jon replied, his voice turning bitter. “I- I apologise for my rudeness, Sir Gerard, but I take it you know why you’re here?”

“Oh, definitely,” Sir Gerard replied immediately. “My mother made no secret of the fact that Lord Bouchard is looking to secure a partner for you. Why do you think she brought me here when normally she leaves me in town during her visits? Apparently, she thinks too highly of Lord Bouchard to risk me joining her in her rare visits, but seemingly that can be put aside when it comes to this.” Sir Gerard shot Jon a look, mixed halfway between sympathy and pity. “Your, ah, your family was mentioned a few times during the journey here.”

_Oh_. “Ah,” Jon replied. “Right. I see.” Not a surprise, given the size of his inheritance – he’d always assumed that Elias was more than willing to use it as a bargaining chip to convince people to visit his otherwise grouchy, sulky, generally unlikeable ward. “I understand.”

“I’m sorry.”

“No, no, I understand, I do. It’s- Elias has hardly made it a secret to me how appealing my inheritance is to many people. It’s just unfortunate that most of those people are, well…”

“Strong characters?”

“Exactly. If I’m honest, Sir Gerard,” Jon continued, not looking at him, “as much as I’d like to get away from Lord Bouchard, I doubt that I’ll find a partner in any of his suggestions. I mean no offence to you, of course.”

“No offence taken, Lord Sims. I don’t hold much faith in my mother’s suggestions either, so it seems we have that in common,” Sir Gerard replied, but he was smiling, and despite all his past experience with Elias’ suggested suitors, Jon found himself feeling remarkably warm towards the man. He actually _liked_ Sir Gerard, at least for now. Talking to him was refreshing; it was actually _pleasant_ , in a way that only Jon’s conversations with Martin had been recently. Whether that meant he would actually be suitable husband material was an entirely different matter (and God, Jon was almost more afraid that he would be, because that would mean that they would have to have certain discussions), but for now, at least, he was tolerable. For now, at least, Jon had someone to talk to.

“Sir Gerard,” Jon said, feeling uncommonly bold, “would you like to join me in the library after dinner?”

Sir Gerard’s smile widened. “Lord Sims,” he replied, “I would like that very much indeed.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! There will be an additional week delay before the next chapter, meaning that it will go up on **January 11th.** Further detail given below.
> 
> _Please be aware that the remainder of this chapter note comes with a cw for Covid discussion_
> 
> So, in short, the day before I planned to travel down south to spend xmas with my family, after not seeing or interacting with anyone at all for over two weeks, an announcement was made that banned all travel between where I live and where my family lives, meaning that instead of getting to see my family for the second time this year, I will instead be spending xmas alone. As you can imagine, this made me feel really fucking shitty and basically crushed my motivation to do much of anything (even though, yes, I do very much understand why the ban is necessary), as I'd been looking forward to this for literal months, and the timing meant that I wouldn't have enough time to post presents to my family, or have them post presents to me. In short: brain sad, writing hard, taking a break. Thanks for understanding.


	5. Chapter 5

The library was a large, fine, beautiful room. Jon had always been fond of it, ever since he’d first arrived at Magnus House in the wake of his parents’ death – the soft silence and quiet corners of the room had called to him, drawing him in and filling his lungs with the scent of paper and ink and old, half-forgotten knowledge. It was a handsome space, well lit by the tall windows that lined one wall of it, and it was, in contrast to the rest of the house, decorated in what Jon considered to be a rather more tasteful, sombre style, full of polished dark wood and rich, dark colours that seemed to glow like old jewels where the sunlight caressed them. The bookshelves that lined the walls were stacked high with tomes of all shapes and sizes, bound in leather or paper or soft, gilded cloth. It was, much like the office that Jon liked to consider his own, a welcome respite from the almost overwhelming nature of the rest of the house – the books contained within it just about managed to balance out how, on occasion, Jon would sometimes find Elias in the library, too.

The door swung shut behind Jon and Sir Gerard with a soft _thud_ , all sound beyond it immediately muffling, and Jon instantly felt himself relax. It had been marginally easier to put up with Elias’… _Elias-_ ness at dinner, Lady Keay serving to act as a suitable distractor, but even being around him tended to put Jon on-edge, making him feel indescribably watched even when Elias wasn’t paying him the slightest bit of attention. He didn’t know if Sir Gerard felt it too, but either way the young baronet had been nothing but flawlessly polite throughout dinner, only conveying his mutual disdain for their guardians to Jon through the occasional quick smile or weary glance. It had certainly made dinner a more entertaining affair; Elias liked to insist on ‘family’ dinners as often as possible, leaving the solitude of his study to join Jon at the table for a meal in which Jon felt that he was being scrutinised with every bite, and it was an undeniable relief to both not have that attention on him _and_ have someone else to keep Elias occupied.

And now he was away from Elias, in one of his favourite rooms, and he was accompanied by someone he actually enjoyed talking to. It was, all things considered, turning out to be a remarkably pleasant evening.

“Mother wasn’t lying about the size of your library,” Jon heard Sir Gerard murmur as they entered, his voice hushed and swallowed up by the waiting books. “This is… I see now why she was always so keen to visit.”

“Lord Bouchard is certainly very proud of it. Though… do you think there’s any chance that your mother might try to join us?”

“While we’re in here?” Sir Gerard asked. “Absolutely not. No, mother, despite her… everything else, is just as keen to see me wed as I believe Lord Bouchard is for you. She won’t disturb us. She spent a lot of time on the journey here encouraging me to get to know you, in her own sort of way.”

“Oh. Oh, that’s- that’s good,” Jon replied, feeling the weight that had settled around his shoulders at the mention of Sir Gerard’s mother immediately lift. He hadn’t stopped to consider that _other people_ might want to join them in the library. It had always been his place, insofar as anywhere inside the house was his. He hummed quietly, leading the way to the shelves that held his favourite books without even thinking about it, the path well-walked and familiar to him. “Does she like reading, your mother?”

From behind him, he heard a soft susurrus of movement, as though Sir Gerard had shrugged. “In a manner of speaking.”

“How can you like reading ‘in a manner of speaking?’”

“She’s very… my mother’s approach to books is a little- well, to speak frankly, it’s a little unusual. You’re aware, I’m sure, that the family business is involved with the buying and selling and otherwise trading of rare or unusual books?”

“I think Lord Bouchard mentioned it at some point,” Jon said, frowning to himself as he tried to remember. He’d gotten into the habit of tuning out most of what Elias said when it came to the suitors themselves. Perhaps this time he should actually have paid attention. “But I- yes, yes, I’m aware.”

“Yes. Well, I won’t deny that she’s got a good eye for books, and for books that people are particularly willing to buy or sell, but she’s- she’s rather particular about what she herself reads. She’s got a very- a very specific _taste_ in books, I suppose you would say. If you ask me, it tends towards- well, it tends towards the _goulish._ ”

“Oh?”

“Mm. She’s always been trying to engage me in books about ghosts and demons and- and spirits, and magic, and all that manner of unsettling events.”

“She sounds like she would have got on well with Lord Crew,” Jon muttered.

“Lord Crew?” Sir Gerard echoed. “I don’t think I know the gentleman.”

Jon waved a hand, coming to a stop before one bookcase in particular. “Lord Michael Crew,” he clarified. “He was another suitor that Lord Bouchard tried to marry me off to. He had a particular interest in books by a certain author – a Jurgen Lightwell or Lindstrand or Leitner or something. Apparently, the man writes ghost stories that all tend to be rather unsettling, and Lord Crew was trying to collect or read as many as he could.”

“Leitner,” Sir Gerard said immediately.

Jon looked over at him, caught somewhat off-guard by Sir Gerard’s swift response. “Does your mother also read these Leitners?” he asked, frowning.

“Not as avidly as Lord Crew, I don’t think. She’s more interested in one in particular – it’s been in her possession for quite some time. I’ve no idea what she sees in it, though – if you ask me, it’s an unpleasant, ugly sort of book.” Sir Gerard looked away, giving a barely-noticeable shiver. “It looks- well, honestly? It looks like it’s written on skin.”

“… Do you mean vellum?”

“No, no, not vellum,” Sir Gerard replied immediately. “I’m in the rare book business, Lord Sims – trust me when I say that I know what vellum looks like, and this isn’t it. It’s certainly not paper, or parchment, or vellum, or anything else we regularly use for book pages. It’s- whatever it is, it’s very odd, and truth be told, the first time I saw my mother open that book it put off reading altogether for quite a while.”

“… Right,” Jon said. He didn’t know what else to say. He didn’t know if there was anything that he _could_ say. He’d assumed that Lady Keay was… odd, given her association with Elias, but he hadn’t expected her oddities to be quite so morbid. Jon coughed quietly, the sound of it hanging in the air, and looked away, tapping his thumb against his leg as he fought to think of _anything_ that would make the silence less horribly awkward. “W-well, I- I suppose that would explain why she gets on so well with my guardian! He’s a very odd man too.”

For a moment, Sir Gerard said nothing at all, and Jon felt himself starting to wither. _God_. Of course that had been a ridiculous thing to say. Of course it had been! Of course he’d started bonding with Sir Gerard, and started to believe that this could actually go somewhere, only to put his foot in it the way he always did. Of course.

And then Sir Gerard laughed, short and bright and undeniably amused, and the vast majority of Jon’s uncertainty vanished in an instance.

“You may have a point,” Sir Gerard replied. “I was about to say that I don’t think that my mother is capable of getting on well with anyone, but mutual oddness could well contribute to her relationship with Lord Bouchard.”

“That, or they both appreciate how the other can help them,” Jon remarked, smiling slightly. “I can’t imagine either of them would be displeased by a, uh, union of the two of us.”

Sir Gerard smiled. It was a little bit uncertain, a little bit sharp, but there was amusement and warmth in it all the same, just about touching on the edges of it. “No, I imagine not.”

For a moment, silence ruled the library. Jon glanced over at Sir Gerard, curious as to what he would see on the baronet’s face, but Sir Gerard had looked away, his attention now turned towards the shelves that lined the room. The sunlight pouring through the windows caught on the edges of his face, lining his features in gold. It was a handsome face, Jon thought, if a bit sharp. It didn’t hold quite as much softness as Martin’s face did, but it was still a face that Jon wouldn’t mind looking at.

“You have a lot of biographies,” Sir Gerard remarked, the sound of his voice startling Jon out of his daze. Jon snapped his attention back to the bookcase before them, defensive words already lining up on his tongue, but Sir Gerard just reached out, running a finger down the spine of one of the books, his pale skin standing in stark contrast to the rich burgundy of the leather beneath it. “I think I may have read some of these.”

“Do you like biographies?” Jon asked.

Sir Gerard shrugged. “I like them well enough. I actually prefer history books, truth be told. Any mythologies. But biographies can be quite nice, too.”

“I’ve always thought of them as small portions of history, myself.”

“Really?”

“Mm.” Jon reached out, gently touching the spine of one of the books. Beneath his fingertips, the cloth binding was warm in the fading evening sunlight. “They’re- they’re my favourite type of book, actually. I like being able to learn about people who lived before me – what their lives were like, what they experienced, what similarities and differences there are between their life and mine, what they went through. It’s… it feels a bit like becoming them, seeing the world through their eyes, even if only for a short while. Though…” He trailed off, sighing.

“What?” Sir Gerard prompted.

“Well… to be frank, I wish there were greater variety in biographies,” Jon admitted. He stepped back, gesturing to the shelves before him. “Don’t get me wrong, Sir Gerard, I do enjoy all the books here, but you read enough of them and you start spotting a number of similarities. Like, for example, how they’re all about… well, about people like us. Lords. Sirs. Ladies. It’s still interesting, especially in the older recounts that start to move closer to history books, but it makes me feel like some of the nuance is missing. Just hearing about those that history has deemed to be ‘important’ or ‘noteworthy’ makes it feel… incomplete. Like I’m not hearing the whole story. Sometimes, I’d like to hear about others, to read statements directly from them. Do you understand?” he asked, suddenly aware that he’d been talking at some length. He looked over at Sir Gerard, feeling his brows drawing together. “Do you understand, Sir Gerard? Sometimes, I would rather read about a- a- a tailor, or a housekeeper, or a gardener.”

Sir Gerard nodded slowly. “I- I think I understand. Though, and forgive me for asking, but couldn’t you read books about those topics, at least for now? Satiate some of your hunger for knowledge.”

Jon inclined his head. “I could, I suppose. We must have books about tailoring or housekeeping or gardening somewhere in here. And if we don’t, I suppose I could ask someone for their recommendations. I have- I have been meaning to acquire more botany books, now that you mention it.” Jon stepped out to one side, scanning along the shelves. He wondered if Martin had read any of the many books that the library housed. He didn’t know how many books they had on gardening, or if they had any at all, but it wouldn’t surprise him to know that they had. The library was large, and extensive, and Elias seemed to delight in collecting knowledge that he then proceeded to do absolutely nothing with. There were plenty of parts of it that Jon had simply never looked into, instead contenting himself with the areas that more quickly caught his interest. He was sure that he’d seen gardening books in there before, though. He must have.

And if they _didn’t_ have any gardening books then it would be easy enough to fix that, he thought absently. Perhaps he could even ask Mr Blackwood for suggestions. He seemed a smart man, and he certainly knew what he was doing – if anyone would have good recommendations for gardening books, Jon reckoned it would have to be him.

“Oh?” Sir Gerard said, shaking Jon from his thoughts. “Are you interested in plants, Lord Sims?”

Jon made a vague, non-committal sound. “I- I… dabble.”

Sir Gerard looked at him curiously. “Do you garden?” he asked. “I ask because I noticed you looking out at the gardens earlier this evening. I wondered if perhaps you were just fond of them or if you engaged with them more than that.”

For some reason, Jon felt warmth gather in his cheeks. “It’s- I- I- I am fond of the gardens, yes,” he admitted after a moment, his tongue feeling unusually awkward in his mouth. “I said that I like going for walks, and the gardens _are_ very lovely, but I have, ah, I’ve…” He swallowed. Why was this so hard to say? “I have, more recently, developed a, um, a more engaged interest in plants. Um. Gardening.”

“Oh? May I know why?”

Jon shrugged, crossing his arms across his chest and then uncrossing them to instead slip his hands into his pockets. “I- it’s- I came to the conclusion that, seeing how much time I spend in the gardens, I might as well, um, know what I’m looking at,” he said. It wasn’t a lie. He was sure of that.

Thankfully, Sir Gerard didn’t seem to take it any other way. He nodded, still watching Jon’s face. “I understand that. There’s a lot of people in this world who can’t be bothered to learn anything that they don’t immediately need to know. In my experience, it makes them rather dull conversation partners.”

Jon had to stifle a laugh at that. “I won’t disagree with you. God knows I’ve encountered my fair share of them.”

“Lord Bouchard’s, ah… recommendations?”

“Primarily, yes. Although, there are also plenty of people who are well-versed in many areas and are entirely insufferable to listen to as a result. My guardian, for example.”

Sir Gerard gave a short huff of laughter at that. “Really?”

“Oh, absolutely,” Jon continued, warming to the topic. “You haven’t yet had the singular delight that is being his one and only conversation partner, but it’s not exactly fun, at least not for me. Suffice to say, there’s a reason that I’m so fond of the gardens. They’re- they allow me to get away from Lord Bouchard and his damned conversations while still being within short distance of the house should the weather turn. I’ve been caught in an unexpected shower on a number of occasions, and it’s rarely a pleasant experience.”

“I can imagine,” Sir Gerard said, “though I think I might find more pleasure in the occasional rainfall than you do. I spent a lot of time indoors in offices and studies and the like. It can be a bit of a relief to feel the rain on my face once in a while. It makes me feel a little more alive, dramatic as that may seem.”

“Oh, don’t worry, I think I understand where you’re coming from.”

“Really?”

“I believe so.”

“Hmm. Well, in that case, and if it’s not too much to ask, would you mind perhaps showing me around the gardens tomorrow?” Sir Gerard asked, smiling slightly. “I’m not going to pretend to know much myself, but you said that you enjoy them and frankly I would love to get away from my mother as much as possible.”

“I’d be honoured to,” Jon replied, more quickly than even he expected himself to. “It’s- is there any part of them in particular that you’d like to see? Lord Bouchard is very proud of his statue garden, though if I’m honest I find it a little bit much. The lawns are very nice, though, as is the lake, and there’s a rather nice coppice further out in the grounds.”

Sir Gerard’s smile grew. “Honestly, Lord Sims, I’d be happy to see just about any of it, so long as it gets me away from my mother.”

“How about-” Jon started, and then cut himself short, the words _the willow tree by the lake_ withering and dying on his tongue. He liked Sir Gerard, of that he was slowly becoming sure, but he wasn’t sure if he trusted him. After all, he’d not even known the man for an entire day, and _yes_ , alright, admittedly he _had_ mentioned his favourite reading spot to Lord Crew quite early on, but it had come up in conversation and there was a distinct difference between mentioning a beloved reading spot and actually showing it to someone. “How about the flower gardens?” he said instead. “We can start there, and if the weather seems to be holding then we can venture further out into the grounds.”

“I’d like that very much,” Sir Gerard replied. He glanced at Jon, his smile making his eyes seem warmer somehow, and Jon felt himself smiling back.

“Tomorrow, then,” Jon said. “I’ll show you around the gardens in the morning.”

\---

Elias was, predictably, indescribably thrilled by Jon’s request the following morning to give Sir Gerard a tour of the gardens, granting his blessing with an enthusiasm that bordered on overwhelming. He all but shooed them out of the doors, smiling from ear to ear, and far, far sooner than Jon had expected, he found himself outside, stood on the steps at the back of the house with Sir Gerard by his side.

“Well,” he said, to break the bird-song-laden silence, “that was, um… that was surprisingly easy.”

Sir Gerard laughed. “Do you really think so? After what you told me yesterday, I’m not that surprised that Lord Bouchard was so excited to see you actively seeking to spend more time with me. Wasn’t it you yourself who said that it was rare for you to tolerate any of Lord Bouchard’s potential suitors, let alone actually _enjoy_ their company?”

Jon huffed, but he couldn’t keep the slight smile from his face. “Well… maybe so. Still, you can hardly judge me for being pleasantly surprised at Lord Bouchard’s actions, seeing how rare it is that our interests ever align.”

“Mm, I suppose that’s a fair point,” Sir Gerard admitted, amusement evident in his voice. “Especially if your tales of his prat-ish-ness are true.”

“ _They are.”_

“Oh, I believe you. But, anyway,” Sir Gerard continued, stepping forwards and absently brushing some loose strands of hair back from his face, “I thought you were going to show me the gardens.”

“You were the one distracting me with conversation, Sir Gerard.”

“Maybe, I was, but you were the one who started it.”

Jon smiled to himself, stepping down off the steps and starting to lead Sir Gerard into the gardens. “Are you always like this, Sir Gerard?”

“Like what?”

“…politely argumentative?”

“Not always,” Sir Gerard replied, his amusement audible as he followed Jon along one of the garden’s many paths, the gravel crunching pleasantly beneath their feet. “Only when I- ah, my lord, it seems we have company.”

“What?” Jon asked. He slowed to a stop, turning his attention away from Sir Gerard, and followed his gaze to-

“Oh,” Jon said. “Mr Blackwood.” He blinked, trying not to stare as Mr Blackwood straightened up from besides the path, turning towards them with wide eyes. He didn’t know how or why he kept on encountering Mr Blackwood out in the grounds when he only seemed to spot other gardeners occasionally, but he also wasn’t going to question it. He certainly didn’t mind seeing him, and he hoped that Mr Blackwood didn’t mind encountering him, either. “You’re, um, you… good afternoon.”

It was a terrible greeting, weak and paltry and entirely insufficient, but it made Mr Blackwood smile, his cheeks dimpling slightly. “Good afternoon, Lord Sims,” he replied, his voice soft. Jon smiled back, unable to stop himself. Martin’s gaze flickered over his shoulder. “And good afternoon Lord, um, Lord…”

“Sir Gerard,” Sir Gerard replied. He bowed quickly, perfectly polite, and after a brief moment where Jon could very nearly hear the gears turning in Martin’s head, Mr Blackwood returned the bow. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr Blackwood.”

“It’s, um, it’s- likewise, Sir Gerard,” Martin stammered. He straightened from his bow, glancing over at Jon as his eyebrows drew together, a frown furrowing his forehead. Jon could practically read the question written across his face: _Is this man like the other one?_

Out of Sir Gerard’s eyeline, Jon gave the smallest shake of his head. He was still smiling, mostly because of Martin, but he hoped that Martin could tell that at least some of the smile was because of Sir Gerard, too.

It seemed that Martin did realise that – his expression relaxed slightly, his shoulders loosening and dropping, and something in that action, in the way that Martin seemed so quick to relax around someone that Jon was comfortable with, made something warm stir in Jon’s chest. Before he had time to contemplate it, though, Sir Gerard spoke up again.

“Have you been working here long, Mr Blackwood?” he asked, nothing in his voice beyond true, honest interest. “Lord Bouchard mentioned earlier how he recently hired on a new gardener.”

“Oh, I, um, that’s- that’s actually myself, Sir Gerard,” Martin replied. “I’ve only been here for a few days.”

“Are you settling in alright? How are you finding the work? I hope you don’t mind me asking, I’ve just found that it’s good to get to know people who attend to where you’re living or staying.”

“It’s, um, it’s- it’s fine.” Martin smiled, giving a short huff of half-nervous, half-amused laughter. “The, uh, the grounds are lovely. There’s a lot to work on and think about. It’s very enjoyable work.”

“How’s- how’s the weeding going, Mr Blackwood?” Jon asked, nodding down to the basket by Martin’s feet. He could see the golden heads of dandelion tangled up amongst other plants, leaves and stalks of all shapes and sizes mixing together until he couldn’t hope to separate them by sight alone. “It, um, it looks- it looks like it’s going well.”

Martin’s smile widened. “It’s going well,” he agreed, his voice still just a little bit uncertain. “It’s- there’s not as many today as there were yesterday, which is always good! I think the drier weather might be keeping them at bay.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. It makes it harder for them to germinate and sprout if the soil’s dry, which is good, but dry soil isn’t _particularly_ good for the other plants. There’s a bit of a balance to be struck when it comes to weed prevention.”

“Ah, right, I- I see.” Jon nodded a few times. “Well, Mr Blackwood, I, ah… Mr Blackwood, do you have any other plans for the day?” Jon asked before he could stop himself. _Christ_. He hadn’t- he hadn’t meant to say that! He’d meant to wish Martin a good day, and leave him to his weeding, and then continue his garden tour with Sir Gerard! He didn’t want to bother Martin anymore than he already had. He didn’t want to eat into the gardener’s time.

Unfortunately, it seemed that his mouth hadn’t got that message.

Jon felt his eyes widen the moment the words left his mouth, but it was nothing in comparison to the half-shocked, half-delighted look that crossed Martin’s face. Martin blinked a few times, his eyelashes trapping the sun in them for a sliver of a second, and then said, in a somewhat distant voice, “I was going to go and prune some trees after this.”

Jon nodded, utterly distracted by how Martin’s eyelashes almost seemed to be gilded. “You- right,” he said, as though he had any understanding of what that actually involved. “I- I see.”

“Yeah.”

“Which ones?” Jon asked. He could see Sir Gerard out of the corner of his eye now, watching him with an expression that Jon couldn’t quite make out, and he knew that ignoring Sir Gerard, a baronet and _his suitor_ in favour of a gardener was unspeakably rude, but he couldn’t help himself. He wanted to know. He wanted to know Martin.

Martin tilted his head, not looking away from Jon. “The- the hazel,” he said. “It’s got some lower bough growths that I need to trim back, that’s all. I wouldn’t touch it otherwise. It’s a really lovely tree – it’s best left alone, I think. It looks much better that way.”

“I may need you to point it out to me at some point, if- if that’s alright. I’m afraid my skill at identifying trees is somewhat lacklustre.”

“I’d love to, Lord Sims,” Martin said immediately, turning his attention back to Jon, and Jon felt his smile widen immediately. “That would- maybe next time you’re in the garden? I just- I wouldn’t want to disturb your day with Sir Gerard.”

From beside him, Jon thought he heard Sir Gerard laugh quietly. He wasn’t entirely sure. He wasn’t paying him as much attention as he knew he should be, but he couldn’t help himself. “I would like that very much, Mr Blackwood.”

“Good. That’s- that’s good.”

“Mm.”

“… Well, I- I must be off. Good afternoon, Lord Sims. Sir Gerard.” Martin gave a small bow, his cheeks still flushed beneath his soft, slightly flustered smile, and then turned, hurrying away back up the path. Jon watched him go; for a moment he thought that Martin might turn back and look at them again, and for a second it seemed like he might as his head started to turn, but then the moment passed and he continued on, eventually disappearing deeper into the gardens. Jon wondered when he might see Mr Blackwood again. Soon, he hoped. He liked talking to the man. He really, really liked talking to him. And maybe it was a bit odd, the way that they so willingly conversed, but he wasn’t going to question it. Any conversation with someone other than Lord Bouchard was a blessing these days, and doubly so if that person happened to be a certain gardener.

“He seemed nice.”

Jon very nearly jumped at the sound of Sir Gerard’s voice. He spun quickly to face him, his heart starting to settle from the sudden sprint it had flung itself into. “He- what?” he asked eloquently.

Sir Gerard smiled, nodding in the direction that Martin had walked off in. “Mr Blackwood,” he elaborated. “He seemed very nice. A very pleasant and polite man, I thought.” He paused, his smile taking on an edge that Jon could only think to describe as ‘knowing.’ “You seemed well acquainted with him.”

The words were said plainly, with no suggestion of any second meaning lurking beneath them. There was no indication of doubt, no hint that Sir Gerard believed that Jon and Martin’s relationship was anything other than what it was, but Jon felt himself mentally pulling away from the words all the same, doubt and worry worming into his mind as surely as any parasitic plant. He didn’t want Sir Gerard to be questioning his relationship with Mr Blackwood. He didn’t want _anyone_ questioning it. Hell, he didn’t really want for anyone to know about it at all, but that was more because he wasn’t particularly fond of anyone knowing anything about him in any capacity, save for the small handful of people that he knew and trusted.

But he couldn’t _not_ answer. That would be rude, and he wasn’t going to be rude. Not to Sir Gerard.

“I’ve spoken with him before,” he said eventually. “I’ve- I encountered him in the gardens not too long ago. We ended up conversing, if you must know.”

“Do you know him well?”

“No,” Jon said, genuine regret colouring his words. “I- as I said, we’ve only spoken briefly, and only a couple of times. It’s, um, it’s… Mr Blackwood hasn’t been working here for very long – Lord Bouchard only hired him recently to replace the old gardener. We recognise each other, though.”

“Evidently so,” Sir Gerard replied, and there was something in his voice, some tone that balanced perfectly between amusement and curiosity, that made Jon look at him cautiously. Sir Gerard just smiled back, as though he were in on some private joke, but what the joke was, Jon couldn’t hope to fathom. “Were you expecting to see him today? On our walk?”

“What? No, no, I was- I had no idea that he was going to be in the garden. I- I mean- I’m aware that he’s frequently in the garden, seeing how he is, well, the gardener, but I didn’t- I didn’t know that he was going to be in the garden today. Now. Where we were walking. I assure you, Sir Gerard, this wasn’t a planned encounter-”

“I believe you,” Sir Gerard interrupted, a quiet laugh colouring his words. “Honestly, my lord. I’m not Lord Bouchard, you know – I don’t need that much of an explanation. If you say that you didn’t plan this, then, well, I’ll believe you.”

“…Oh,” Jon replied. “I- oh. I see. Alright.” He squinted at Sir Gerard, not entirely convinced by the baronet’s words. Being trusted, being _believed_ … it wasn’t something that he was entirely accustomed to, not when he spent so much time being needled and politely and silently doubted by Lord Bouchard.

But, he reminded himself, Sir Gerard was not Lord Bouchard. If anything, he was a delightful contrast to Lord Bouchard. He was understanding, or at least he seemed to be. He actually _listened_ to Jon.

He seemed, as far as Jon could tell, to be nothing but entirely genuine.

It felt weird.

It felt nice.

“So,” Sir Gerard said, the corners of his lips turning up in a smile, “what else is there to see in this garden?”

\---

Many hours later, after further discussion and further exploration of the gardens and after a remarkably tolerable dinner with their guardians, Jon excused himself to his bedroom for the night. It hadn’t been a particularly long day, not really, but he still felt somewhat tired, worn out by the nearly endless socialising that he’d been taking part in for the last few days. He wasn’t _exhausted_ , not the way that he usually was by interactions with Elias’ suggested suitors, and he had no doubt as to the cause for the distinction: unlike just about everyone else that Elias had tried to wed him off to, Sir Gerard was actually _tolerable_.

More than that, Jon thought absently as he undressed and made himself ready for bed. He was actually _nice_. Sir Gerard was nice, and polite, and friendly, and he shared various experiences and opinions with Jon, and he had been nice to Martin, and Jon didn’t know what to do about it all.

Jon climbed into bed, blowing out the lit candle that had been left at his bedside and allowing the resulting darkness to engulf the room. He hadn’t had this problem before, not outside of Sir Oliver, and even then he hadn’t liked Sir Oliver quite as much as he already liked Sir Gerard. The same fears that had contributed to him rejecting Sir Oliver still applied to Sir Gerard, of course – Jon doubted that he would ever find someone that they _didn’t_ apply to – but somehow, with Sir Gerard, he felt… less aware of the fact. He’d barely known the man a couple of days, but he still got the impression that, even if he didn’t understand it, Sir Gerard might still be kind enough to respect Jon and Jon’s inclinations, or lack thereof. It was an interesting thought. It made the whole… the whole _thing_ , the whole marriage and inheritance and actually being free and away from Elias thing, it made it seem plausible. Possible. It made it seem like something that Jon could actually experience, instead of some vague, ultimately impossible hope.

Sir Gerard was… he was nice. More than just nice, in fact – he was understanding, or at least he seemed to be to Jon, based on what he’d seen from the few days that Sir Gerard had been staying at Magnus House. He was polite, and friendly in a slightly distant sort of way at times, and he seemed more sociable than Jon (which was, admittedly, a pretty low bar to clear), and he just seemed _nice_. He was patient when Jon stumbled over his words, and he understood all of Jon’s complaints about Elias in a way that no other suitor ever had, and he seemed willing not just to talk about himself but also to _listen_. For God’s sake, he’d stopped to greet and compliment Martin on the work that he’d been doing in the garden! He hadn’t treated Martin as- as lesser, or as inferior, or as anything other than the closest thing to equal they could possibly be. He’d been nice to Martin.

He’d made Martin smile.

Jon felt his face grow warm at the memory of that. Sir Gerard had made Martin smile. He’d made Martin smile, had made Martin properly, _truly_ , smile, and that more than anything warmed Jon to the young baronet. Anyone that made Martin smile, he figured, had to be at least slightly tolerable.

_Even if_ , part of him added, _even if they don’t make Martin smile as much as I do_.

Jon rolled over, pressing his face to the pillow to hide his sudden smile from the shadows around his bed. Sir Gerard may have made Martin smile, which was wonderful enough to see on its own, but he, _Jon_ , had managed to make Martin smile _more_. Jon was entirely aware that it wasn’t a competition, seeing who could make the gardener happier, but he still felt inexplicably warm at the thought that Martin had smiled even more because of _him_. Admittedly, he’d made Martin smile by making an absolute fool of himself, but he found that he didn’t mind that quite so much, even if Sir Gerard _had_ been around to see it. He’d made Martin smile.

He’d made Martin smile, and he didn’t know why that mattered to him as much as it did.

In the unseeing darkness of his room, Jon frowned into his pillow. Why _did_ it matter to him that he made Martin smile? It wasn’t like he knew the man, not really. They’d spoken a few times, sure, and Martin had certainly seemed happy to see him in the garden, and Jon had _definitely_ been happy to see _him_ , and apart from the less than impressive manner of their first meeting, Martin hadn’t done anything to earn Jon’s ire or dislike, but he was also just a person. He was just a person, no different than anyone else that Jon had encountered before. He shouldn’t matter to Jon. He _didn’t_ matter to Jon. He was just someone that Jon had happened to encounter a few times. He should feel no differently about being able to make Martin smile than he should about making Sir Gerard smile. And, he thought hastily, he _did_ feel glad that he was able to make Sir Gerard smile, because Sir Gerard was proving himself to be more than just tolerable with every passing minute and was, it turned out, actually quite lovely too, but it wasn’t- he didn’t- it was _different_ with Martin. It was different with Martin, and Jon didn’t know why.

Jon groaned, the sound muffled by his pillow. _Christ_. This wasn’t- this wasn’t _conductive_ to anything, this line of thinking. It was late, and he was tired, and all he’d been meaning to do was spend some time ruminating on Sir Gerard before eventually falling asleep. He hadn’t meant to think about Martin. He hadn’t meant to compare Martin’s reactions to him against Martin’s reactions to Sir Gerard. He hadn’t meant to _care_ this much about Martin, or about anyone who wasn’t Melanie or Georgie, and yet here he was, wondering if Martin might appreciate a visit to the library as much as Sir Gerard had. He wanted to show Martin the library. He wanted to hear Martin talk about his interests, and his hobbies. He wanted to hear how Martin sounded when he was excited, or surprised, or delighted.

He wanted to show Martin his reading spot beneath the willow at the lake.

At that thought, Jon forcefully rolled himself over and thudded his head down against the pillow, glaring into the darkness. He wasn’t- he _wasn’t_ going to examine that thought, not now. He wasn’t going to think about how he wanted to talk to Martin again, wasn’t going to think about how he wanted to ask Martin what his favourite genre of book was, wasn’t going to think about he wanted to get to know Martin, to know his hobbies and interests and opinions and thoughts on every little thing. He wasn’t going to think about that. He _wasn’t_. Martin was- Martin was Martin, and Jon was Jon, and Sir Gerard was Sir Gerard and was also the man who Jon was supposed to be thinking about marrying. He wasn’t meant to be mulling on his fondness for a gardener. He wasn’t meant to be thinking about Martin at all.

Jon rolled over once again, squeezed his eyes shut, and willed himself to sleep.

In the darkness of his room, his mind painted images or Martin and Sir Gerard across the back of his closed lids.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! The next chapter will be posted on **January 20th!**
> 
> However, please be aware that the next chapter will be the last one for quite some time, as this fic is going on **indefinite hiatus**. I've been really struggling to find the motivation and inspiration to keep going with it recently, and I eventually decided that, much as I may pride myself on regularly updating fics, I would rather wait and see if that inspiration comes back than force myself to keep writing it and produce worse chapters as a result. Thank you for understanding.


	6. Chapter 6

After their first walk together in the gardens, similar outings very rapidly became a regular occurrence. Jon had been given no indication by Elias of how long Sir Gerard and his mother were going to remain at Magnus House for, but he got the impression that the answer was ‘until an offer of marriage was made, or until Sir Gerard was rejected as a suitor.’ That was how it had always worked out in the past, at least, and Elias had given no indication that the situation would be any different now. It felt different, though. It felt very different.

For starters, they’d never before had a suitor stay at the house for so long.

With every passing day, Elias seemed to grow more and more obnoxiously smug and delighted. He never went so far as to be overly apparent in his joy - even he wasn’t rude enough for that - but it was clear in every line of his face and every word that he said just how _delighted_ he was that Jon and Sir Gerard seemed to be getting along, and getting along _well_. Jon barely even had to mention the gardens, or the library, or some other similar private excursion for Elias to give them his absolute blessing, practically shooing them out of the room so that they may ‘better get to know one another’ while still being close enough to their guardians to just about skirt the boundaries of acceptability. It was stifling, in a manner that somehow managed to be entirely refreshing at the same time. Jon had been enduring the pressure of Elias’ constant judgemental scrutiny for so long that even this over-enthusiastic matchmaking felt like a relief, and it was only in part because it got him away from Elias for a while.

The other part was because, unlike almost anyone else that he’d ever been introduced to, Sir Gerard was actually _nice_.

There was nothing beyond that, not really. Jon had been aware of Sir Gerard’s niceness from the first day they’d met, but it still continued to pleasantly surprise him. They seemed to be on similar, if not entirely identical, wavelengths, with similar opinions and similar interests and similar hobbies. Their tastes in literature varied, though not too dramatically, and Sir Gerard always seemed happy to listen whenever Jon started rambling about some biography or another that he’d read recently, chiming in with his own comments and thoughts. It was nice. Jon didn’t think he’d been so entertained and engaged in conversation since the last time that he’d seen Melanie and Georgie, and admittedly the bar was _very_ low considering that most of his prospects for conversation lay in Elias the majority of the time, but sometimes Jon found himself nearly as engaged with Sir Gerard as he was with _Martin_.

Martin, who he still found himself encountering in the gardens.

It was rarer for Jon to walk in the garden on his own these days, what with how keen Elias was to see him spend as much time as possible with Sir Gerard while still staying suitably close to the house for Elias’ somewhat lackadaisical form of chaperoning, and so the majority of his encounters with Mr Blackwood tended to happen with Sir Gerard at his side. They saw Martin several times as Jon gradually showed Sir Gerard the rest of the gardens, along with some of the other gardeners; though Sir Gerard always made a point to stop and greet the other gardeners, asking them a couple of questions and generally complimenting their work, the only time true conversation was held was with Martin, and said conversations usually involved Jon doing most of the speaking (or, to put it rather more accurately, the stammering). It took Jon several of these encounters, stumbling through conversation about the local wildlife and events at the nearby town and what _exactly_ Martin’s thoughts were on the imperfect structure of flower language, for him to realise that, after a certain point, Sir Gerard tended to… wander off. He never went far, never leaving the garden or even the area that they were in, but part way through most of Jon’s longer conversations with Martin he would simply move a few steps away, occupying himself with whatever happened to be in the immediate vicinity while still giving Jon and Martin some degree of privacy, or at least the impression of it. He never mentioned it himself, and Jon didn’t _think_ that he’d ever heard Sir Gerard excuse himself when he was deep in conversation with Martin, but at the same time he would have to admit that he tended to get somewhat distracted when speaking to the gardener in question.

He did eventually ask Sir Gerard about it, though. It took him a while to get round to it, concerns of accidentally insulting Sir Gerard swarming his thoughts, but after one particularly delightful conversation with Martin, wherein Jon had mumbled something about wanting to get more botany books for the library and somehow managing to ask Martin for his suggestions, he found himself asking the question as they returned to the house, his mind still half-distracted by thoughts of Martin’s delighted smile and enthusiastic rambling.

“You seem to get on well with him,” was all that Sir Gerard had said in response, smiling in a way that made Jon frown at him. “You always seem happy to see him, Lord Sims, and he seems happy to see you, and I’ll be honest – though I _am_ interested in the gardens in general, I’m fairly certain that your interest in the actual gardening element of it outweighs mine. You two already seem to have a connection of sorts, and I’m not going to get in the way of that. It just makes sense to me that, should we encounter Mr Blackwood, you should be the one to talk to him instead of I.”

That response just made Jon frown more. “I assure you, Mr Blackwood is a perfectly pleasant conversationalist-”

“No, no, I’m sure that he is, Lord Sims, I don’t doubt that in the slightest, it’s just…” Sir Gerard trailed off, looking away. “You and Mr Blackwood…” he said eventually, “there seems to be something _more_ there, that’s all.”

“’More’? What do you mean?”

“I don’t know, a- a certain connection. He’s definitely nice, I’m not disagreeing with you there, but every time you two speak, I… well, truth be told, I feel like a bit of an intruder. Which is not,” he added hastily, seeing Jon starting to reply, “a bad thing, I- I promise you of that. I know the importance of having good friends.”

“Mr Blackwood and I are not-” Jon hastened to interrupt, feeling his cheeks flushing red, but Sir Gerard spoke faster than he could, speaking up with a quiet, knowing, almost fond smile.

“Lord Sims,” he said, and Jon fell silent. “I’m not like Lord Bouchard, don’t worry. I’m not going to judge you for making friends with a gardener. He seems like a good man, and you seem to like him, and he seems to like you. There’s nothing wrong with having friends close at hand. And trust me,” he continued, “I know the importance of friends. I know how they can be found where other people may not expect, especially for… well, especially for people like ourselves.” He snorted. “Lords. _Baronets_. Apparently, that makes us different somehow from the rest of the population, though I’ll be damned if I know how. As far as I’m concerned, people are people. We all live, and we all eventually die, and for _some_ reason, it’s been decided that the state of our family and the contents of our purse should have some bearing on how we’re treated.”

Jon blinked. Sir Gerard didn’t look at him, his attention seemingly fixed on the small plants pushing up against the edge of the flowerbed – more weeds that Martin hadn’t quite got to, possibly – but after a few seconds he sighed, shaking his head and lifting a hand to his temple.

“Apologies,” he murmured, “that was- you didn’t need to hear that outburst-”

“No, no, it’s- it’s alright,” Jon said quickly, stepping towards him. He reached out, finding himself reaching for Sir Gerard, but caught himself and pulled his hand back, instead turning a smile towards the baronet. “Really,” he said, his voice soft. “It’s- I’ve often thought the same thing myself.”

Sir Gerard raised an eyebrow. “Really?”

“Yes,” Jon replied. “It’s- I don’t see any reason to treat the house staff, or the footmen, or the- or the-”

“Or the gardeners?”

“Yes, or the gardeners – I don’t see any reason to treat them any different to how we treat those of ‘our’ standing. They have just as much right to exist as we do. They have just as much right to be people as we do. It’s- frankly,” he said, finding the words slipping from him unchecked as his tone turned more snappish, “it angers me when Lord Bouchard, or one of his friends, ignores the staff, or in some way treats them as though he would be in any way capable of maintaining himself or his estate without them. He may love to boast about his gardens and his home, but they would fall into disarray within _days_ if he didn’t have other people to tend for them, and yet he seems to think that _he_ is somehow the superior one!”

For a moment, silence ruled the garden. The air seemed still, as quiet and frozen as crystal, and the soft susurrus of wind through the hedges somehow only served to deepen it, making the absence of birdsong all the more apparent.

Jon drew in a breath. “…Sorry,” he said, suddenly feeling abruptly out of place, “I didn’t- I didn’t mean to go off quite like that.”

“Oh, no, don’t apologise!” Sir Gerard replied. Jon looked over at him, catching his eye, and Sir Gerard smiled wider, amusement clear in his expression. “Really, Lord Sims. Honestly, it’s something of a relief to find someone who thinks similarly to myself. God knows that my mother doesn’t. She’s in a very similar boat to Lord Bouchard – it’s refreshing to be able to talk about it for once without hearing her typical tirade in response.”

“Oh,” Jon said. It felt insufficient. He didn’t know what else to say. “O-oh. I see. Um… good.”

Sir Gerard smiled. Down by his side, his hand twitched. “Indeed. Now, come on,” he said. “Let’s see if we can’t find that book that Mr Blackwood was telling you about in the library.”

And so, they did. They spent a perfectly pleasant afternoon in the library in the wake of their discussion, looking along shelves that Jon had checked once years ago and then more or less forgotten about in the search for any of the botany or gardening books that Martin had recommended. They didn’t find any of them, which didn’t come as much of a surprise to either of them, seeing how Lord Bouchard’s tastes tended more toward old, impressive-looking classical works, but Sir Gerard did manage to locate a smaller, beautifully illustrated botany book, which Jon eventually took with him when he retreated to his bedroom later that day with every intention of reading it. He sat down by his window, enjoying the slight coolness that the glass gave off, but no sooner had he opened the book than his attention slipped directly off it. Instead, as they so often did these days, he found his thoughts quickly turning away from the book, and instead towards Sir Gerard, and all that Lord Bouchard expected from him.

As they so often did, Jon found his thoughts turning to the question of marriage.

Because, as he reasoned to himself yet again, he _liked_ Sir Gerard. He did. He liked his quiet interest in books, and he liked his quick, wry smiles, and he liked the rather more gothic air that he tended to exude with his clothing choices and general presence, making him stand out from the bright gaudiness that Elias preferred to inhabit. Jon liked spending time with him, and going on walks in the garden with him, and he liked mutually complaining about their respective families with him. The topic of marriage or inheritance hadn’t crossed either of their lips since their first conversation, and Jon appreciated that more than he could say, but at the same time he could feel it hanging over both of them; a shroud of responsibility and expectation that was waiting to ensnare them at any moment. They were both aware of it – how could they not be, with Elias’ overjoyed smile and Lady Keay’s sly smirks? They both knew why Sir Gerard was there. They both knew why their guardians were so supportive of them spending time together, provided of course that they were suitably close by, so as to avoid any potential scandal. They knew what the situation was. They knew what the most sensible outcome was. And yet…

And yet.

And yet Jon didn’t want to marry Sir Gerard, and he didn’t know _why_.

For some reason, it felt as though there was a wall between himself and Sir Gerard, one that existed in his mind and in his heart and nowhere else. It was a wall that he hadn’t constructed, was a wall that he would honestly prefer to see gone, but it existed all the same, and Jon didn’t know _why_. There was nothing wrong with Sir Gerard. There was, in fact, everything _right_ with Sir Gerard. He was exactly what a young man should be, polite and kind and responsible and _nice_. He would make anyone a fine partner. He would make _Jon_ a fine partner. He was handsome, and striking in his own way, and Jon had no objections to spending time with him. Sir Gerard had never once made him feel uncomfortable, or unnerved, or in any way on-edge. He was perfect, and while Jon knew that it was a rare marriage indeed that could be considered perfect, he felt that any marriage between the two of them would, at the very least, be several steps above tolerable.

And yet the more he thought about it, the more he felt himself rebelling against it. He liked Sir Gerard. He liked Sir Gerard a lot.

And he absolutely, entirely, in no way wanted to marry him, or be bound to him, even as he could feel the potential for romance starting to gather close, looking to settle on him but finding no place to rest. Romance with Sir Gerard felt wrong, somehow. It felt possible, felt rational, felt like something that could and _should_ happen – it was so, so easy, sitting there in the quiet of his room, to picture a life where he was married to Sir Gerard, and happily so – but it didn’t feel right. It felt like there was something in the way, some veil that separated his heart from Sir Gerard’s, but if such a veil existed and wasn’t just the product of Jon’s habitual avoidance of romance and marriage in any capacity, then Jon didn’t know what it was. He just knew that it existed, and that he hated it, and that he wished that things could just be _simple_.

He wanted to talk to Mr Blackwood about it, he realised quietly. He wanted- he wanted to talk to Martin about this whole situation with Sir Gerard. Jon chewed on his lip, leaning forwards to press his forehead to the cold glass of the window pane. In the gardens beyond, he could see the branches of the trees swaying gently to and fro, guided in their dance by the soft summer breeze that gusted across the grounds. He couldn’t see Martin. It wasn’t a surprise, that piece of knowledge, not with how late it was, but it still made Jon feel… he didn’t know. Mournful, maybe? Sad? He snorted at that, the sound small and for his ears only. _Ridiculous_. He didn’t- why would he be _sad_ that he couldn’t see Martin? It wasn’t as though he knew the man, not really. They weren’t friends. They spoke whenever they saw each other, yes, and Jon knew that he was always delighted to encounter Martin, and - apart from their very first encounter – he had only ever enjoyed listening to Martin talking in depth about proper gardening techniques, or the right time to plant bulbs, or, on one memorable occasion when Sir Gerard had politely excused himself to examine some flowers on the other side of the garden, his favourite mystery book that he’d been rereading whenever he got a moment to, but they weren’t- they weren’t _friends_. They couldn’t be friends. Jon was a lord. Martin was a gardener. That wasn’t- that just wasn’t how the world worked, no matter how much Jon may wish otherwise. Everything about their conversations, everything about their- about their _relationship_ was unusual and uncommon enough to begin with.

And here he was, wanting to make it all the stranger by bringing his fears and thoughts of marriage to Martin Blackwood himself.

Jon sighed. For a moment his breath clung to the glass before him to coat it in a fine layer of fog, but it faded almost instantly, warmed by the sleeping summer heat. _Christ_. What was he doing? What was Martin doing? What was Sir Gerard doing, more importantly? Had he- had he noticed Jon’s unusual fondness for the gardener? Had he noticed Jon’s fondness for _him_? Jon had to assume that he must have done – Elias certainly had, and Jon was fairly certain that Lady Keay had, too. And it wasn’t a false or faked fondness either; he truly _did_ enjoy spending time with Sir Gerard and being in his company. He liked everything about him. It really was the perfect situation. And he needed to marry, he knew that. He needed to marry, and he needed to leave, and Sir Gerard was by far the best candidate for that that he’d encountered so far. It would be a perfect match. It would be a perfect situation. Jon would get to leave Elias, and Sir Gerard would get to leave Lady Keay, and they’d both be content and happy with one another and they would, at the very least, be married as very good friends. Maybe, with time, that friendship could grow into true romance. Maybe, with time, that romance could grow into love. There was certainly the potential for it, and Jon knew of plenty of people who had married with less connection between them and their partners than what he had with Sir Gerard. Logically, this was the right choice. Logically, this was the best thing to do.

In the quiet of his room, Jon gave a soft groan and gently thudded his forehead against the window. He couldn’t- he _couldn’t_ keep thinking about this on his own. He couldn’t! His thoughts just kept on going in circles, looping in on themselves without ever once coming to a conclusion, and it was _tiring_. He needed to talk to someone, to discuss the situation with them, and yet he couldn’t. Not yet, at least.

What he really needed, Jon thought quietly, was to talk to his friends. And, with any luck, they’d be arriving very soon indeed.

\---

“I swear, Jon, this place gets uglier every time I see it.”

Jon smiled, turning to see the disgust on Georgie’s face as she surveyed the entrance hall, her gaze settling on the gilded painting frames and extravagant furnishings and décor. At her side, Melanie barked a short laugh, a grin sliding across her face.

“Is it?” she asked, teasing delight laced through her words as she gently elbowed her wife. “Hah, seems like _I’m_ the lucky one today, love.”

“Don’t let Elias hear you saying that, Melanie. He’s been, ah… rather proud of how modern everything is.”

“If by ‘modern’ he means ‘remarkably hideous’ then he’s doing an exceptional job,” Georgie added, following Jon further into the house. “I mean, I understand wanting to show off your wealth, Jon, really I do, but this is- it’s…”

“It’s very _Elias_ ,” Jon finished for her. “I know.”

“Exactly.”

“You know, there are some things that I miss about being able to see,” Melanie added with a small, content sigh, “but this isn’t one of them. It’s actually rather nice. It’s… refreshing. I can listen to you two complain about it but I won’t have to put up with it myself.”

“Gloating isn’t very becoming, Melanie.”

“You’re just annoyed that you have to look at it every single day, Jon. I don’t. I’m _free_.”

Unseen, Jon pulled a face at her.

“Stop pulling faces at me,” Melanie said immediately, grinning around her words. “I know you’re doing it, Jon.”

“You can’t _see_ me!”

“No, but I know exactly what you’re like. Also, I could feel Georgie trying not to laugh,” Melanie continued, patting her wife’s arm with the hand that wasn’t currently resting on it.

Jon tutted. “Spoilsport,” he muttered, only to have Georgie turn to him with a gasp.

“I am _not_!” she exclaimed. “It’s not _my_ fault that my wife knows exactly how you behave.”

“You’re the one who gave it away, though.”

“ _Accidentally_.”

“Mm, it still counts.”

“Remind me why we’re friends with you, Jon?”

“God if I know,” Jon replied cheerfully, ushering them into the sitting room and letting the door shut behind them, “but you are, and apparently I haven’t lost that friendship _quite_ yet.”

“Emphasis on the ‘yet.’”

“You wound me, Melanie.”

“So, joking aside,” Georgie said, seating herself across from Jon, “tell me, how _have_ you been since we were last here? Your letter rather suggested that things were, um… well, it suggested that Lord Bouchard was-”

“He was being Lord Bouchard, yes,” Jon finished with a sigh, some of his brief jovial nature dropping away. “For all that he keeps complaining that I apparently reject every eligible and suitable individual in the country, he doesn’t seem to be having any trouble in locating _yet more_ suitors and throwing them in my direction.”

“I’m assuming that he wasn’t very happy about the… who was it, Lord something-”

“Lord Crew.”

“-yes, right, thank you, Melanie – you mentioned him in your letter, as well how things didn’t, um, didn’t entirely work out with him. I’m assuming Elias wasn’t very happy.”

Jon exhaled. “No, things- things didn’t work out with him,” he said, shifting a little in his seat. “He was, um… well, he was perfectly fine, at least to begin with. He seemed like pleasant enough company. He liked- he liked books.”

“Lots of people like books, Jon.”

“Yes, yes, I know, but it’s- you know as well as I can that Lord Bouchard isn’t lying when he reminds me that I can’t exactly afford to be picky when it comes to suitors right now. It was still _something_ that we could talk about, at the very least. And,” he added, “he seemed to have his own interests and hobbies, which was a nice change. Meteorology was one of them, I think. He had some, um… he had some _thoughts_ about storms. Interesting ones,” he hastened to add, “and I dare say that, were he anyone else, we could have had very pleasant discussions about them, but he was- he- well, I just didn’t like him.”

Georgie raised an eyebrow. “Any particular reason for that?” she asked. “I trust you of course, you know that already, but… well, I’m curious!”

“You’re nosy, you mean.”

“Is that any way to talk to a guest?”

“I think it’s a perfectly fine way to talk to my best friend,” Jon said, making Georgie roll her eyes as a smile immediately crossed her face. “Besides, you tease me often enough. I’m fairly certain that I’m allowed to tease you back from time to time.”

“…”

_“Georgie.”_

“Fine, fine, alright, go ahead, tease your best friend. It’s fine. I’m not mortally wounded or anything.”

“Oh, you’ll get over it.”

“I’ll get over it faster if you tell me more about this Lord Crew.”

“You are _terrible_.”

“Yes, but you love me.”

Jon glared at her. Georgie smiled back. “…Fine,” he said eventually, as Georgie’s smile widened into a grin. “Though, frankly, there’s not much to say about him. He didn’t stay for very long.”

“Yes, we got that impression,” Melanie added. “We want to know _why,_ though.”

For a moment, Jon fumbled. He knew exactly why he hadn’t liked Lord Crew, and knew exactly why he hadn’t wanted to marry the man, but he was also entirely aware of how feeble and minor his issues with the man had truly been. After all, he’d had all of _one conversation_ with him before dismissing him and having Elias send him on his way. That was practically a record, even for him. But at the same time…

At the same time, this was Melanie and Georgie, and they thrived on gossip almost as much as he did. And, more importantly, he knew that they would actually listen to him.

“He was- he was rude,” Jon said eventually. “To the, um. To the- to the gardener. Well. He was rude about the garden, and was indirectly rude to the gardener as a result. We- Lord Bouchard hired a new gardener recently,” he elaborated, seeing the confused looks on Melanie and Georgie’s faces, “and when Lord Crew and I were in the gardens he made some… he made some _comments_ about the state of the gardens, and about the work of the gardeners, and it was- he was- he was rude. I didn’t like him. Um.” Jon looked down, abruptly feeling strangely… he didn’t know. Sheepish, maybe? He felt as though he’d said too much, somehow, for all that he’d barely said anything at all. But that in itself was the problem, he supposed – even at the time, he hadn’t had any _real_ complaints about Lord Crew apart from his general rudeness, and this conversation was just serving to remind him of that. He still didn’t fully know why he’d turned Lord Crew down.

He still didn’t know why he was considering turning Sir Gerard down, too.

“Jon-” Georgie started, no tone in her voice beyond perfectly friendly curiosity, but before she could say anything more, Jon found himself speaking over her, his words cutting hers short.

“How’s The Admiral faring?” he asked quickly, the words tumbling out of his mouth in a desperate attempt to change the subject away from suitors and courting and _why_ he couldn’t just sort this all out and settle down and _stop thinking about the gardener._ It was an obvious ploy, one that he knew both Melanie and Georgie recognised, but, thankfully, they both seemed willing to take pity on him today. Or, more accurately, _Georgie_ seemed willing to take pity on him, and gently and lovingly elbowed her wife in the side the moment Melanie opened her mouth to tell Jon off for trying to change the topic so brazenly.

“The Admiral is fine, Jon,” she replied, as Melanie gave a quiet but pointed _ow_. “Honestly, I don’t think he really noticed our absence all that much when we were at the Peak District. He’s good at keeping himself occupied.”

“He’s good at sucking up to the house staff, I think you mean,” Melanie added. “He’s got the cook at his beck and call, you know he has.”

“You can’t blame him for that! It’s not his fault that he’s so sweet and cute.”

“It’s his fault for using those traits to manipulate people. Honestly, Georgie, I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again – I love that cat, you know I do, but he could survive an _apocalypse_ just by charming people. There’s a reason he’s never bothered by our absence.”

Georgie sniffed. “I like to think that he misses us a little bit, at least. I mean, I _have_ looked after him for most of my life. Hopefully that means _something_ to him. He definitely purrs enough whenever we arrive home.”

“Hm. I suppose he does.”

“ _Thank_ you.”

“But I do still think that he’s a cunning manipulator. Which isn’t to say that he _can’t_ love you!” Melanie added hastily, at the sound of Georgie’s affronted gasp, “but he- he can love you _and_ be a cunning manipulator. They’re not mutually exclusive.”

“I cannot _believe_ -”

Anything that Georgie may have said further was interrupted by a sudden soft knocking at the door. Jon turned to look, hearing the door sighing open, but his immediate worry that it may have been Elias coming to check on them was dismissed the moment he laid eyes on the now-familiar dark hair and dark clothes of the house’s other guest.

“Lord Sims- oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t know that you had company-”

“Sir Gerard,” Jon replied, quickly standing up. He could feel Georgie’s eyes and Melanie’s attention heavy on the back of his neck, burning into his skin, but he didn’t look at them. He just smiled at Sir Gerard, turning slightly to gesture to Georgie and Melanie. “It’s quite alright. Georgie, Melanie, this is- this is Sir Gerard. Sir Gerard, these are my good friends, Lady Georgie Barker and Lady Melanie King.”

“Oh,” Sir Gerard replied, before his eyes widened. “Oh, yes! Yes, didn’t you mention that they’d be visiting a few days ago?”

“I did,” Jon replied. For some reason, Sir Gerard’s comment made him feel unusually warm. He hadn’t expected the man to have actually remembered his brief comment about his friends. “They’re going to be staying with us at the house for a while, to, ah… to keep me company. No offence meant.”

Sir Gerard waved a hand. “Oh, none taken. Believe me, I know how it is. It’s good to have company, especially when the company consists of people that you actually know and like and not just random suitors that your guardian has insisted that you meet.” He met Jon’s eyes at the last few words, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. Jon found himself smiling back. It was hard _not_ to smile in Sir Gerard’s company, he’d found. He liked the man’s wit, and his dry humour, and he just liked _him_ in general.

“You’re welcome to join us if you wish, Sir Gerard,” Melanie said with an audible grin, interrupting Jon’s train of thought. “We were just catching up, and it’s always interesting to meet Jon’s suitors whenever we get the chance.”

“Have you met many of them?” Sir Gerard asked, breaking eye contact with Jon to turn his attention to her.

“We’ve met our fair share,” Melanie said easily. “We’ve definitely heard about enough.”

“I see. Well, I wouldn’t want to impose-”

“Oh, you’ll be fine. You’ve got Jon’s recommendation, and that’s more than enough for me.”

Sir Gerard raised an eyebrow. “Have I now? I’ve got the impression somewhat that Lord Sims’ recommendation is hard to come by.”

“Oh, it absolutely is. He can always find something to take offence at if he decides that he doesn’t want to like a person.”

_“Melanie!”_ Jon hissed, aghast.

“What?” Melanie exclaimed. “It’s true! You didn’t like me either when we first met!”

“In my defence, Melanie, the first time I saw you, you were holding a _knife_.”

“It was an antique dagger.”

“It was still sharp, and it was also pointed _directly at me_.”

“Do I need to remind you that I _couldn’t see you_ , Jonathan?” Melanie asked, but there was years-old amusement in her voice, the discussion so familiar that even Jon only really found entertainment and fond memories in it. “As far as I was concerned, I wasn’t pointing it at anyone. You’re not allowed to blame me for the dagger incident.”

“I’ll blame you as much as I like, Lady King.”

“I’d like to see you try, Lord Sims. And before you say anything,” Melanie added quickly, just as Jon started to open his mouth, “you know _exactly_ what I mean by that. Don’t start being pedantic. Not when we have _company_.”

“Oh, don’t worry, I’ve already encountered Lord Sims’ fondness for pedantry,” Sir Gerard said, amusement curling around his words. He looked over at Jon, meeting his eyes, and gave a small, soft smile. “Though honestly, after spending so much time with people who like to warp their words however possible, it’s actually somewhat of a relief. It’s a nice change of pace, if nothing else.”

“Most things are a nice change of pace from Lord Bouchard and your mother,” Jon pointed out, delight curling along his veins at Sir Gerard’s widening smile. “You can’t deny it, Sir Gerard.”

“Hm, fine, I suppose I can’t. He is-”

“He’s a… character.”

“Exactly.”

“Are you sure you won’t join us?” Melanie asked. “Truly. We’d be more than happy to hear any horror stories that you have about Lord Bouchard, you know.”

“Thank you for the invitation, but I have to decline,” Sir Gerard replied, smiling apologetically. “I’d rather not intrude upon you at present. Perhaps some other time? After dinner, perhaps.”

“I’d love for you to join us after dinner,” Jon said, not even looking at Melanie and Georgie for their approval.

Sir Gerard’s smile widened. “Thank you. In that case… goodbye Lady King, Lady Barker.” He looked over to Jon, his smile becoming warmer, and inclined his head. “Lord Sims.”

Jon smiled back. “Good day, Sir Gerard,” he replied quietly, and, with another quick smile, Sir Gerard left.

For a brief moment, silence ruled the room. Jon continued to stare towards the shut doors, a significant part of him quietly wishing that Sir Gerard _had_ decided to stay, and it was only when Georgie cleared her throat, breaking the still and the quiet, that Jon realised that he was still standing and hastily moved to sit down.

“So,” Georgie said, “I take it that was the new suitor that Lord Bouchard invited over.”

“What?” Jon asked. “Oh! Oh, yes, right, that’s- yes. That was Sir Gerard.”

“He seems… nice.”

“ _Georgie_.”

“No, no, I mean it!” Georgie added hastily. “He does! He seems nice! Nicer than most of the people you write to us about, at least. He dresses a bit gloomily, but otherwise he seems lovely!” She paused, looking at him with an all-too-knowing eye. “…Jon?”

“Mm?”

“Is he?”

“What?”

“Lovely? _Is_ Sir Gerard lovely? Because, well… he certainly seemed nice enough just then, but we both know that that’s hardly an indication of what someone’s actually like, so I was just, you know, checking. Is he lovely?”

“I- yes,” Jon heard himself answering, even before he even fully processed the question, and felt himself flush a moment later at the immediacy of his response. He coughed, making Melanie give a short laugh that was just as knowing as her wife’s look had been. “He, um, he’s… yes. He’s rather- yes. Lovely. Um. A-and Lord Bouchard is quite keen on him.” He paused, frowning. “Or at least, he’s keen on our, ah, our- our friendship, and I believe Sir Gerard said that his mother was too.”

“Oh,” Georgie said. “Oh! That’s- huh.”

Jon frowned at her. “What?”

“Nothing,” she said, far too quickly. “It’s just- it’s-”

“What, Georgie?”

“It’s just that you don’t normally _like_ your suitors,” she continued.

“At all,” Melanie added helpfully. “As we just saw from your Lord Crew.”

“He wasn’t _my-_ ”

“Eh, you’re the one who had to deal with him, so that makes him yours, at least for this conversation.”

“ _Melanie_.”

“She has a point,” Georgie said. “You can’t tell us that we’re wrong, Jon. I don’t think I’ve _ever_ seen you actively want to talk with one of your suitors. Or have them stay for more than just a few days. _Or_ have an actual conversation with them that isn’t horribly forced.” She leant forwards slightly, the fabric of her dress rustling in the quiet stillness of the sitting room. “So…?”

“So… what?” Jon asked, as though he couldn’t see the question waiting to be asked.

“ _So_ ,” Georgie repeated, unable to keep her smile at bay, “are you going to… y’know… ask him?”

Jon shifted in his seat. “I- I don’t… I don’t know,” he admitted. “I don’t- I haven’t- I haven’t decided.” It felt strange saying the words aloud. It felt as though he were really admitting them for the first time, for all that he’d been mulling on the question of proposal for a while now. He knew Sir Gerard. He _liked_ Sir Gerard. He had every reason to propose to him, to marry the man and be content and free for the rest of his life, and yet even here, before his friends, before the two people who knew him better than anyone else, he still couldn’t articulate exactly _why_ he was so unsure.

Georgie frowned. “You don’t know?”

Jon shrugged, glancing away. “I- not really, no.”

“But you said that he’s nice.”

“He is.”

“And that you get on with him.”

“I- I do.”

“So… what exactly is the issue, Jon?” Georgie asked, frowning. “You yourself said that he’s perfectly nice. And you seem to like him, which is frankly a miracle, knowing what you’re like. You said that Lord Bouchard already approves of the match, and that Sir Gerard’s mother does too. Why don’t you just propose to him now? Get it over and done with. The sooner you get married the sooner you can get your inheritance and be free of Lord Bouchard. I’m not going to dissuade you from marrying for love, heavens knows that, but, well… you’ve been looking forward to this for _years_.”

“I know, I know, I have, but… I- I don’t- isn’t it a bit fast?” Jon replied, wincing at his own words. He knew that that wasn’t the problem, and from the look on Georgie and Melanie’s faces, he could see that they knew it too. “It’s- I- it’s only been a couple of weeks, you know. It’s- it’s rather-”

“ _Jon,”_ Melanie said, and Jon fell silent immediately, looking down at his hands as he twisted them together in his lap. “Don’t be obtuse. Yes, it is a bit fast, but I really doubt that anyone’s going to judge you at this point. He’s nice, and you like him, and he seems to like you, so just go to him, ask if he wants to get married, and then enjoy your freedom. You’re both rich enough – if it turns out that you’re not actually compatible once you _do_ get married then you can both live happily independent lives at opposite ends of whatever undoubtedly massive house you end up living in.”

“I- I suppose you have a point-”

“I _always_ have a point, Jon.”

“-but it’s still- I- I don’t-” Jon stammered uselessly, one hand fidgeting restlessly with the cuff of his shirtsleeve. He didn’t know what he was trying to say, didn’t know what he was trying to object to, didn’t know what argument he had against any of Melanie’s words because he _didn’t_ have one. There wasn’t an argument to _not_ marry Sir Gerard. He knew this. He’d had the discussion with himself multiple times now, in the peace and quiet of his room or in the solitude of his study, and he’d never come to a good conclusion about why, exactly, he felt so quietly yet certainly opposed to this particular union.

“Jon,” Georgie said quietly, her words catching his attention. She reached out across the gap between them, her hand palm-up, and Jon took it unthinkingly, feeling her fingers squeeze gently around his own. “Listen, you don’t- I’m sorry if Melanie or I made you feel pressured. You don’t have to decide if you’re going to propose to him right now, you know that. There’s not really any rush. I doubt Lord Bouchard is going to be in much of a hurry to kick Sir Gerard out, seeing how much you clearly like him, so you’ve got time there. Honestly, I’m pretty sure Elias would be thrilled to know that you’re even considering it, given your, um, your- your history with suitors.”

“By which you mean my continued rejecting of them?”

“…I might mean that a little bit.”

Jon smiled. “Well… I suppose you might have a point,” he admitted quietly. “Lord Bouchard certainly hasn’t given any indication that he’s, um, frustrated that I’m taking my time. I’m sure he wouldn’t complain if I were to propose tomorrow, but honestly, so long as I’m still giving some indication of liking Sir Gerard, I think Elias won’t mind too much. He’s certainly been happy enough to keep shoving us together at any opportunity.”

Georgie squeezed his hand again. “See? You’re fine! You’ve got time to think it over. You don’t _have_ to marry Sir Gerard – don’t pull that face, Jon, I know it always seems hopeless and gloomy to you but you _know_ I’m right – and you don’t have to decide right now, and you know that whatever you choose to do, Melanie and I are here to support you, right?”

“Or tell you that you’re being an idiot,” Melanie added, but Jon could hear the smile in her voice.

Georgie rolled her eyes, shooting her wife a fond look. “Yes, fine, or tell Jon when he’s being an idiot, that too. I thought that was a given, though. I mean, we _already_ tell him when he’s being an idiot.”

“In letters, though. It’s better when it’s to his face.”

“Remind me why I invited you both here again?” Jon asked, making Melanie laugh quietly.

“Because we’re your best friends,” she replied. “Obviously. And because you need us to tell you to stop stressing from time to time, especially about all this marriage and inheritance stuff. Georgie’s not wrong, you know – no matter what Lord Bouchard says, you _have_ got time.”

“I’ve got a year.”

“…Alright, so you’ve got a set amount of time, but that’s still time to consider the whole- the whole Sir Gerard situation in. You don’t need to rush it-”

“I-”

“Yes, fine, alright, you need to rush it _a little bit_ , but honestly, Jon, if you spend a _year_ wondering if you want to marry this man, then I think you already know the answer.” Melanie shrugged, leaning back. “Mull it over while we’re here. Maybe- I don’t know, maybe make a list? Balance out the upside and the downsides of marrying him? Whatever. But do something, at least. Think about it, talk to us about it, and stop stressing, alright?”

Jon took a breath. “Alright,” he said, feeling relief gather in his chest at Melanie’s words. She was right, of course. He did have time, at least a little bit. He could think about this for a little while longer. “I- alright. I’ll- I’ll think about it. I’ll think about-” he swallowed, “-I’ll think about proposing to Sir Gerard.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!
> 
> As I mentioned in the notes of the previous chapter, this will be the last chapter in a while, as this fic is going in **indefinite hiatus**. I've been struggling to find the motivation and inspiration to continue it, and I'd rather not force out sub-par chapter, so for now this fic is on pause. Thank you all for reading so far, and for all your lovely comments <3 Any news about this fic returning will most likely be linked at my [twitter](https://twitter.com/crunchywrites).
> 
> -Crunchy

**Author's Note:**

> This fic came about as a result of a discussion with my wonderful friend [Fin](https://twitter.com/wormspiral), so you have him to thank for all of this!  
> Thanks as always to my beloved beta readers, [E](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebookishdark) and K, and thanks as well to my _gardening_ beta reader, [Kas](https://archiveofourown.org/users/steamingcupoftea)! You’re all heroes <3  
> Fic comments are always welcome and help to fuel the motivation! Or, if you'd like to talk to me elsewhere, please feel welcome to message me at my [twitter](https://twitter.com/crunchywrites)!


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